His Frozen Fingertips
by TheLastofUs
Summary: Between his father and his bullies, Arthur finds himself struggling with a life that is hardly surviving on its own. Degrading oh so slowly, and in a world of fitting in and selfish desires, the children around him are struggling to find themselves. And as Alfred finds he needs to save Arthur, he doesn't realize just how badly Arthur needs a hero*Contains bullying and past torture
1. Arthur and Oscar

"_Now you're walking back_

_To a place you call home,_

_But you feel so alone._

_So alone…_

_If they_

_If they really knew…_

_I bet their minds would change."_

_-If They Knew, Joel Faviere_

_His Frozen Fingertips_

Arthur Kirkland ran with a burning heart. It pounded violently in his chest and the blood pounded against his ears_. Let me out_. It screamed. It pushed against his rib cages and nearly ripped him apart. _I have to get away. I have to._ Was echoing endlessly throughout his subconscious. Arthur's legs felt as if they would fall off, but he couldn't stop now—oh no he couldn't possibly give himself up to them.

He tried his best not to look over his shoulder as he ran away. If only he had this speed during gym class. Maybe his mile run score would be a bit better. At last, he finally made it to the trees and swerved in and out of the vines and bushes_. Don't fail me… You've had my back 'til now, don't fail me._

The branches seemed to close behind him as he dashed into the dead leaves of the ground and the cool leaves of the bushes.

"The little b—ch ran in there again," he heard their voices from outside the thick trees. But he didn't stop running. He never stops running.

"Well it isn't like he can stay in there forever. Let's just get him tomorrow…" the faintest whisper finally scurried away from his eardrums.

Arthur heard their voices die away, but he didn't stop running until he found his tree. Falling onto the tree, he scratched the palm of his hand as he tried to catch his breath. His heart leapt from his chest and he collapsed on the roots of the oak tree. _Arthur's_ oak tree.

It stayed like that for half an hour. Arthur, curled up under the solitude of his tree. The leaves shaded him away from sunlight and guarded him from shadows. He finally lifted his head up and leaned against the bark, trying to calm his breathing.

One more year.

One year, that's it.

Just one more year until you can move back to England.

You'll be eighteen and you'll be an adult. You won't have to go to Hell—oh wait they coded that as _high school_—anymore. You'll be alone like you've always wanted.

_I don't need friends._

"I like… being by myself. I need to be alone," he said quietly, looking up at the large leaves of the old tree. "Isn't that right, Oscar?" he brushed his hand down the side thoughtfully.

"I don't need friends… I don't need people… I only need myself. I can take care of myself, can't I?" he looked to the branches for an answer, receiving the same rustling leaves as every other time. "I don't want to be part of their crowds…" he continued, "I don't want to know what it's like to high-five someone without being pranked… I don't want to eat lunch in the lunch room… I don't want to know what it feels like to wake up without nightmares… I don't… I don't want to… Look down at my body and smile instead of cringe… I don't want…" Arthur choked on his words as dry tears pried his lids open and ran away from his eyes. Why was it impossible for him to cry?

He gripped the blades of grass and dug his nails into the dirt. _Why? Why can't I cry? I feel so terrible and I just want to cry… But I've never been able to no matter how bad it gets. Why can't I just… Be like them? A normal kid that can at least cry when he's sad…_

_ …No. No I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm happy. _And he forced his lips into a broken smile.

He leaned against the thick tree trunk and messily wiped the tears from his face with his shoulder, gazing at the skin-colored pigment coming off on the blue sleeve.

Arthur lied down more comfortably and looked wistfully at the clouds. Up to the sky and watched the sun fall behind the horizon as well as his mind behind consciousness.

* * *

"We're all going to have partners for this assignment," Ms. Lesters said as she clapped her hands together.

School the next day was average. The beginning was always easiest. Arthur always loved learning, his favorite subject being English. Science was okay for him, but he never really liked learning about evolution—I mean the stupid teachers always left out the unicorns, fairies, and other magical creatures! Luckily, this unit was on the solar system, so he didn't _not_ like it.

All the kids in the class looked directly at one person at the mention of partners, already having their partners picked out. Everyone except Arthur. Arthur counted the students in the room and mentally cursed when the number came out even. The others simply moved over to each other's desks as if they'd been given a list of who got to work with who. And no matter how many times Arthur's pen hovered over the list, all that came out was invisible ink.

"What do you mean we can't work in groups of three?" Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis were all up at the teacher's desk.

"I mean: _pairs only_. The numbers are even and everyone needs a partner."

_I don't._

"Can't we please work together?" Antonio begged, pulling the puppy eyes.

_Please?_

Sadly the teacher was immune, for the next spoken words were: "No. Now, who in here doesn't have a partner?"

The class was silent as their science teacher scanned the room. It felt as if she was seeking out the person that took the last chocolate chip cookie that she _really_ wanted. Arthur tried to blend in with the rest and stare into his paper. The poor loose-leaf thing almost burst into flames. He felt his pulse quickening as he tried to scrawl in more answers.

_Invisibility powers… Activ—_

"Arthur, do you have a partner?"

_Crap._

Arthur looked up and bit his lip. His eyes flickered between the death glares of the trio and back to the teacher. Be partners with one the biggest bullies of your life or lie to your teacher? The latter was oh so tempting… His gaze lowered as he reluctantly shook his head.

The three boys looked at each other as if they were planning something. That or discussing something through their minds. Stupid telepaths. Arthur swore he saw homicidal intent in their eyes. They looked at each other for a while before Antonio clung to Francis's arm and yelled: "FRANCIS IS MY PARTNER!" for the whole world to hear. A couple kids laughed, some ignored him entirely—but ignoring Antonio was a feat. I give those whom accomplished it props.

"No way, that's _so_ unawesome. I'm not being his partner!" Gilbert argued.

"Boys! That's enough. Gilbert, you'll be Arthur's partner or I can write you up. The choice is yours."

Gilbert made a face of disgust and he looked as if he was actually contemplating the second choice. But then he smirked and walked in Arthur's direction with no objection and a "'kay, Miss L."

Arthur visibly swallowed and shoved his face back down to the worksheet. It was so easy, why did they even need partners? _He's getting closer…_

"Okay, stupid," Gilbert said low enough not to be heard enough by others, but loud enough to intimidate the boy next to him. "Let's get this straight. You do all the work and if we get anything less than a 99, you'll find your body twisted in ways that defy gravity."

_How encouraging…_

Arthur scribbled answers down, but his writing got a bit shakier after the last statement from the silver-haired student, and suddenly, the paper didn't look so easy anymore.

What's bigger? The sun or the moon? How should he know? Stars are red? Wait is that hotter or cooler than a blue star?

It was the beginning of the year; of course all the questions were for idiots… But right now all he could feel was his heart thumping in his ears. He'd had no problem with his grades earlier, but with a great white shark sitting right next to, you, a small tuna fish, you'd better swim away. And fast.

Arthur had never been more thankful for the lunch bell.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland found himself back at his tree at the end of the day.

It's the same every day. He goes through his classes with minimum teasings—though sometimes they turn physical—then he spends lunch behind the school, and then he has to run back to Oscar (that's what his tree is named) before the beatings get any worse than they did through the school day.

Yet fate liked to mix things up sometimes.

Like today for instance, Arthur found himself trying to stop a bloody nose by the stream next to his tree.

_It's okay. You can keep enduring this longer._

But the phrase seemed to lose all meaning by now.

The teenager let his eyes slip shut. Just for a minute, he told himself. You can sleep a little for a little while…

And Arthur fell asleep with his blood running from his nose to his chin.

* * *

_ A piercing scream cut through the thick air._

_ "Shut up, the neighbors will hear you again," his father grumbled and picked up another knife. "Now what's your favorite color, Artie?"_

_ Arthur bit his lip and hesitantly replied: "Green."_

_ He let out a yelp when the sharp object plunged into his forearm from the knife his father was holding as he straddled him on his bed in his room. Only two minutes earlier he'd been playing with his action figures and daydreaming about his first day of first grade the next day. Now he was just dreaming he'd be alive tomorrow._

_ "Wrong answer," his father seethed._

_ "G-Green. It looks like the trees and flowers! I love the tre—" the little boy insisted before his words were halted by his father._

_ A dirty hand clapped over the child's mouth as he made a large incision in the boy's shoulder. Even muffled by his father, the scream shook the bed as the boy squirmed, only to have his daddy sit on him heavier. Finally the hand let up._

_ "Artie," he breathed, "What's your favorite color?"_

_ "R-Red," Arthur croaked out through sobs. _

_ "Mine, too," a crooked grin lit up in the darkness of his bedroom as he felt pain shoot up his arms again._

_ Arthur felt blood run down his wrists and elbows to the part where it felt as if he was swimming. He bit his lip so hard it started to bleed and he fought the urge to gag at the metallic taste. He couldn't scream. Not since last time._

_ And by "last time" the boy was referring to when the neighbor knocked on the door. His father rinsed his arms off and answered with a grin he put up in front of company. He ended up explaining he had gotten his son the new laptop he'd been begging for and he was so excited he screamed._

_ Tears pricked the corners of Arthur's eyes and his father stopped for a moment, flicking them away with the same knife he'd been cutting with, leaving a drop of his own blood on his face."_

_ "Shh," he cooed, "You're okay. You can keep enduring this longer…" and he reached for another knife._

* * *

Alfred F. Jones.

That was his name.

The new face in the crowd, transferred to the school the week before. Immediately, he gravitated towards the jocks. The popular kids. Some kids are just destined for that type of thing. Some kids are just destined for a fate like Arthurs. It was inevitable.

Yes, Alfred F. Joes was the new face in the crowd of bullies when Arthur was pushed to the cold floor once again. His elbow hit the tile first and sent a jolt of pain up his arm. He tried his best not to show any pain in fear of encouraging the monsters more. Their claws were so close to his heart, and his heart so close to shreds.

Arthur noticed he looked uncomfortable the first days. He would stand near the back with uncertain eyes, occasionally looking the other way when blood was drawn or with a yelp of pain. However, this feeble attitude was quickly demolished. How? Arthur hadn't the slightest idea.

The first week he transferred to Arthur's oh so dreaded high school, like mentioned before, he was pulled in by an invisible hook to the jocks. Promises of popularity and stardom hung in the air and Alfred took the bait too easily.

Alfred easily became the star on each sport team in all but a week. The sport during the season at the time was football. Alfred was already a big strong kid with phenomenal grades—anyone would be a fool not to pick the _teen_.

Though not always true, (most times however) Alfred became one of the stereotypical jocks. He played pranks and partied. It seemed like a pretty big transformation. All this happened in just a few days as Arthur watched from the sidelines. Whether it was longing or sadness in his eyes, not even I know.

Longing for the same feeling of companionship. Sadness to watch yet another soul wither away into the same form. Another clone of the rest.

He tailed the crowd like a lost puppy. A new duckling in the pond.

"Haha, look at this idiot. Follow my lead bros," the ringleader muttered to the crowd behind him.

The group approached Arthur and he instinctively backed into the lockers behind him. The poor boy knew what was coming. He merely closed his eyes and waited for the blows to come.

"Open your eyes, spaz," he felt a slap on his cheek.

Arthur hardly winced at the hit. He'd had so much worse. The boy opened his eyes nonetheless. Pale green eyes stared past the boys as if they were invisible. Pale green eyes stared past the familiar faces. Pale green eyes shined with emotion unplaced by those in the crowd. By the boy in the back named Alfred.

"Pretty eyes for a pretty boy," a boy whispered in Arthurs trembling ears. "Let me shine them for you."

The jock spit on Arthur's pale skinned face as laughter erupted behind him. Three drips of saliva fell from the apples of his cheeks down to his chin. A couple more splatters of the substance simply sat heavily on his face. Arthur fought every urge not to move an inch.

Alfred looked away with uncertainty flickering back and forth in his sky-blue eyes. Arthur was shoved into the blue lockers behind him even further as the group of six marched out in another direction.

Alfred glanced up suddenly, and ran after the group without batting an eye towards the English boy against the wall. Said person was wiping spit off of his face with a worn-out sleeve.

This was only the beginning.

Alfred F. Jones had drifted from the tail-lights to a comfortable seat in the middle of the clique. He laughed more loudly than before and looked around the school with confident eyes. This was three weeks subsequent the last epidemic.

"Guess who forgot their homework last night?" Arthur felt his shoulder fly forward from a violent shove and found Francis towering behind him.

"Y-You?" Arthur's guess only making the Cheshire grin wider.

"You're great at this game! Let's play another round. Guess who is going to give me theirs?"

Arthur gave a shaky sigh and reached for the completed packet in his bag, and pushed the papers towards the man beside him. Francis smirked and picked up the pages heavy with pencil lead. Arthur looked to the rest of the people around Francis. Alfred bit his lip when Arthur attempted to make eye-contact with the foreign man.

"Well you're worse at this game than I thought. The answer was Feliks," Francis's tone was amused as he proceeded to rip his papers. "But this was a fun encounter."

"Francis, I didn't have my homework though! You should have given it to me!" Gilbert whined after the teenager as he led the group away.

The small, uneven squares fell onto Arthur's desk heavier than what would be assumed. He swore he could hear a sound as each piece touched the wooden top. Arthur eyed the shredded pieces. The graphite was smeared from the oil of Francis's fingers. His eyes were emotionless to the world; sorrowful to those whom penetrated his barriers.

"Take your seats, class, and get out your homework from last night!"

* * *

Three months.

Was that all it took to break Alfred's nature?

Within three grueling months, Alfred had received a copy-and-paste sadistic grin in a colorful box under the Christmas tree. A copy-and-paste sadistic grin like the rest of the gang. A grin that only widened when they made eye contact. A grin that laughed at him when he lost a tooth or gained a bruise.

A grin like the rest.

Alfred marched arrogantly in the front of the pack now. His eyes always seemed hungry for more. More bloodshed. More cries of pain—and not just Arthur's.

Though Arthur always _was_ a favorite.

Arthur was hurrying to his locker. He overslept ten minutes so he didn't get to school early enough to avoid the crowds of children. He timidly moved past everyone, avoiding all eye-contact necessary. All he wanted was his notebook.

The numbers flew through the lock on his blue locker and he opened it in record time. He grabbed an old black journal and started to run to first period—until he rammed into a wall.

Wait… Not a wall.

He looked up to see Alfred, probably a whole head taller than him. Alfred F. Jones.

Fear overwhelmed his trembling body and he cursed himself for being so oblivious to his surroundings. He bit his lip and pulled his journal closer to his frail body and backed up, muttering an apology and attempted to dart off again.

"Where do you think you're going?" a menacing voice drafted into the boy's ears and a strong hand grabbed his arm and spun him around.

Arthur stared up to mocking eyes and his own stayed horrified.

"C-Class," he croaked out, yet could make no move with the chain on his arm.

"A hit-and-run? How _rude_," Alfred stared deeper into the fear-stricken emeralds.

"I'm… I'm sorry…" Arthur said loud enough to be heard.

Alfred laughed and replied, "Really? And you think that's going to cover it?"

Alfred let go of Arthur's arm and reached for the journal he was protecting in his arms. The old black-leather book that was already falling apart at the seams. The crumpled paper was ancient enough. Arthur's eyes widened and he courageously tried to pry the book from Alfred's fingers.

"Give it back to me!" he yelled, ignoring the stares from passing classmates.

"Wow, this is the most I've seen you fight back! Come on, puppy, sit!" Alfred laughed as he opened the book, glancing at the pages but not quite reading it.

"You can't read it! You _can't_!" Arthur shouted louder and his voice almost cracked.

Alfred smiled and held the book above his head. "Sit, puppy!" he said in a way too cheerful tune.

"Please, give it back! It's important!" Arthur screamed once more and lunched for the object only to be greeted by open air.

"I told you, if you want it, sit! Come on, puppy, work for your treat!"

"You're serious?" Arthur asked as he stopped fighting.

"Sit," Alfred smirked.

Arthur looked up at the man and then to the ground. Hesitantly, he fell to his knees and sat down. His expression stayed emotionless as his eyes shifted lightly, yet stayed glued to the dirty tiles.

"Speak, doggy!" Alfred was nearly in hysterics as he laughed.

"…Woof," Arthur whispered in a shaking voice that only fed the fire.

Arthur's eyes snapped up to a ripping noise and felt a page fall on his head. Scribbled writing floated so innocently down to the ground followed by three more. His mouth opened slightly and distress was ever so present in his green orbs.

The journal found its place on Arthur's lip, crashing down with great force. Alfred was the number one pitcher on the baseball team, after all. A trembling hand made its way to his lower lip and came back scarlet. Alfred was nearly doubled over in laughter until the late bell rang and he cursed under his breath, running to first period.

Arthur swallowed his cries as he picked up the lost pages of his book and tried to make it to first period before he was marked tardy.

It was inevitable. The fate Arthur was stuck in; forced to run away at the first sound of the last bell. He nearly had psychic powers through years of experience. He nearly had super-speed from years of experience. He nearly had magic healing powers from years of experience. By those terms, he would be a super hero. But from years of experience, Arthur knew super heroes didn't exist.

Three months.

Was that all it took to break Alfred's nature?

* * *

Alfred was trailing behind the gang as they ran. Dang Arthur ran _fast_. He could be on the track team and win every single competition with this energy. But he isn't. He's just some loser that keeps his ugly face down—to the relief of the rest of them— and is a little punching bag to the everyone. If he wasn't, who would be?

That was Alfred's logic. The things he repeated every day. The things drilled into his brain from the first month he was caught into the crab trap otherwise known as Hetalia High.

Alfred nearly rammed into the kid in front of him. Why did they all stop so suddenly? He glanced around, seeing irritated looks plastered on their faces. Was he supposed to be annoyed? Alfred made his best angry face.

"What's _up_ with that kid and that stupid forest?" the boy in the front of the pack grumbled as he started to lead the rest away.

"What do you mean?" Alfred asked as he lingered by the forest entrance. His eyes wandered dazedly to the entrance as if it was calling him.

"The kid runs in there every day before we can catch him. Mark followed him in there once but came out with poison ivy and snake bites. I'm surprised that idiot comes out alive each day," the guy explained and started to walk off again.

Alfred watched the guys leave, yet his feet wouldn't move themselves. He kept feeling some kind of magnet in the forest. He felt the breeze pushing him in. The light calling out to him from the other side of the thick bushes and shadows of green.

Before he knew what he was doing, he stepped into the dead leaves at the entrance.

It was almost magical how the trees seemed to move themselves out of his path. The snakes slither away from him, the deer glance at him before moving on. The beautiful colors that revealed themselves in the canopy.

The labyrinth was huge. Where was he even going? For all he knew Arthur headed in the opposite direction. But something just kept him moving. Something kept his boots in the muddy floor. Something pushed him past the branches, sheltered him from the vines—something _brought_ him here.

He took a final step into the clearing and his eyes widened. This place was nothing like the creepy trees and bushes he ventured past to get there. The grass was greener than green and the sky was bluer than blue. There was nearly nothing there, though that didn't tarnish the beauty.

There was a single tree in the middle of the entire field, and a stream beside it. There were flowers scattered about, and one out of place large boulder. The sounds of birds soothed him. The melodies of the leaves rustling calmed him. He felt at peace as the water splashed by in the creek.

Yet one sound unsettled him.

Sobs.

Alfred's eyes widened as he watched after the figure kneeling at the tree. The pitiful thing clutched onto the bark until his hands bled. His head was scratched as well, but the boy didn't seem to notice it. A journal was to his left. A backpack was strewn a while away. Was it just him, or did this child look familiar?

Alfred felt a gasp unwillingly escape as the boy turned around and faced the sky with dry cheeks, yet sobs continuing to pour from his lips. Quivering lips and eyes screwed shut. Hair tousled and clothes dirtied. Bloodied.

It was Arthur, and he was certain of such a thing.

"I'm sorry, daddy, mommy," Alfred had never heard such a raspy voice before. "I'm really sorry… I tried to get it back… But he ripped some of it out. It was yours , daddy… And I ruined it… I'm sorry I'm a bad child."

Alfred stilled all movements—even breathing—as he watched the child before him. The seventeen-year-old looked so… not even sad did the boy justice. His eyes were nearly vacant and he seemed like he couldn't see anything materialized. He just stared into the deep blue sky as if it had all the answers.

"I already memorized every page… But it's your handwriting. Some got ripped… I'm trying for you… I know you never said you loved me… but you did right, daddy? I love you, too. So I'm trying really hard for you," he choked on another sob before continuing, "but it's getting harder each day! I nearly lost you…" the boy stroked the leather cover of a book. "It's getting harder… So much harder each day to just stop myself… I just want to drown myself in the creek…" his eyes wandered helplessly to the clear water splashing around. "Can I?"

Alfred couldn't breathe. Who was he asking—and why would he ask for death? _Why..?_ Arthur was such a mystery and one worth solving.

However, a slice of him was too scared to peel back the colored wrapping paper.

"I know… I'll try my best… It's only another year…" Arthur cried invisible tears. "I know… I only have Oscar… But I really want you, daddy. I miss you… I know you loved me… right? You did?"

Alfred listened to him attentively. What kind of person had he been to judge him from how he looked? To taunt—to _hit_—such an innocent soul? To… Humiliate him? Guilt settled like a rock in his stomach.

Arthur yanked off his school blazer that seemed to be stitched into his skin during the school day. He peeled back the fabric and Alfred felt his breath caught in his throat again. There were so many. So very many scars. There were cuts and slashes and gashes and slices covering every piece of flesh. The red patches continued down to his wrists and up to his shoulders and disappeared down his shirt. Some of the scars were words written in dried blood and chapped skin. Alfred was too far of a distance to read them, though his eyes strained to the point where they were pained.

Arthur traced his scars thoughtfully and continued: "I know you only did it because you loved me… Because you wanted to mark me your own…" Arthur sobbed out the next part: "but it really _really_ _hurt_, daddy… Couldn't you have just hugged me instead? Then I'd still be yours … Just easier… And less painful…"

Arthur lifted his pale green eyes to the clouds again and whispered "good night, daddy," before he settled himself on the grass ad his head on a tree root.

Was the poor guy going to _sleep_ here? Where was his home?

Alfred swallowed; only one thing running through his otherwise empty mind. The same thing repeating over and over and once more and then again and again as he made his way through the now dark forest. His door to his bedroom shut and he ran under his covers. The phrase was still repeating.

_ What the _heck_ had I just over heard?_

* * *

**_Thank you for taking the time to read my story ^.^ I'm not sure when I'll update, but I'll try. :P I really shouldn't write two stories at once... BUT I CAN'T HELP IT Reviews are cookies to me~ (Psssssssst I love cookies.)_**


	2. MINE

"_First there's lights out._

_Then there's lock up._

_Masterpieces serving maximum sentences._

_All the galleries; the museums_

'_Here's your ticket, welcome to the tombs'_

_They're just public_

_Mausoleums."_

_-Regina Spektor, All the Rowboats_

_His Frozen Fingertips Chapter Two_

Arthur had gym for third period.

The class was only used for humiliating the children who could not run. The children who exceled at other subjects like English and art. Children who adored the comforting words of Shakespeare and Poe. Children who cried over swirls of blues and reds. Children like Arthur. Can't they accept that some children yearn for knowledge not strength?

"_No one accepts that, because no one accepts you." _

Arthur was always forced to change into his gym uniform in the showering area where they had shower curtains. I mean, he couldn't exactly put his scars on display, now could he?

If you just mentally answered "yes," shame on you.

The faded orange shower curtain was opened by a feeble hand and revealed a small square of space with a shower head. The tiles on the floor were dirty and grimy as if no one cared enough to clean them. Arthur stepped behind the curtain, pushing his bag of clothes in and turned around to an oh too familiar group of people. Why was there always a group? Why was there never one?

_"Sit, doggy," _

Oh right. That one time.

Francis was normally the one in the front, but I guess they changed it up today, because Gilbert was smirking down at the shorter man with a contorted smile.

Without warning, the silver-haired demon shoved Arthur. The boy slipped over water on the ground and bashed his head into the wall. He heard ringing in his ears before he felt his hair being pulled and he was forced back up to his feet.

He felt another pair of arms as they twisted his hands behind his back to the point they felt as if they would pop and break and rip and tear and split apart and _shatter_. Another fist connected with his shoulder while two more hit his stomach.

Arthur coughed and gasped for oxygen only to be met by the hand that just punched his shoulder. It now held his jaw shut. He felt blood clog up behind his teeth, banging on the door, trying to escape the cavern. But the drops of crimson were locked in there. The key was a calloused hand.

Arthur felt himself slipping away and he felt someone grab his messy hair again and slam him back into the wall, but this time they left him there. He finally opened his lips and blood spilled out through the narrow opening. His consciousness crawled under the carpet and disappeared. Was there _really_ a reason this time? Just boredom?

Nearly all five of the boys were doubled over in laughter. It was hilarious!

"Did you see his face?" Antonio asked in fits of laughter.

"I've never seen someone's eyes blink unevenly before! I mean left _then_ right," he laughed, "God, I wish I had a camera…"

"I recorded it on my phone!" Francis said excitedly and played back the footage with an audience.

Alfred looked down at Arthur on the floor. The sight of all his blood made him sick.

_"It's getting harder… So much harder each day to just stop myself…"_

_Is there really a reason this time?_ He thought wistfully, shaking his gaze away.

"What are you doing, Al? You're missing the—" laughter interrupted his sentence along with various "_Ooh!"s_ before he continued: "The best part."

"Best part?" Gilbert asked from beside him. "Dude, I'm not nearly done with the kid yet."

"Whoa, what are you doing?" Alfred said hastily as Gilbert knelt by Arthur's limp body.

"Stripping him! We'll send the picture to the entire school," he finished with another disgusting laugh. "Imagine his face when he finds out. We really should start an album."

"W-Wait," Alfred stuttered and the whole group looked at him curiously.

Alfred remembered all the scars covering his body from yesterday. Grotesque gashes and cuts and bruises drawn on with permanent marker. Grotesque gashes and cuts and bruises stitched in with a thick, infected needle.

Alfred felt his heart bleed dishonor. It dripped down with a plop and landed somewhere he couldn't find it. But it was certainly always there. It always managed to climb back up when he really wished it hadn't existed in the slightest.

_ "What do you want to be when you grow up?" a six year old girl ran up to Alfred._

_ "I'm going to be super man!" he replied in a smaller, younger voice as he posed. "I'm going to save the world!"_

_ "Really?" the girl's voice was so excited. "I want to save people, too! Will you save me when I'm in trouble? I'll save you, too!"_

_ Alfred grinned a heroic grin that was missing a tooth or two and replied: "Of course! I'll save everyone!"_

What a disgrace he was to that character now.

"It'd be more humiliating if we just made him walk soaking wet to the next class, right," Alfred's voice blended back to normal as he played a fake smirk, only praying they'd buy it.

_Here's your receipt, sir, please shop with us again._

The water was flicked on by Antonio. It must have been scalding hot because the water had an effect on the boy. The water pecked at Arthur's face, turning it a nauseating shade of red. Red was all too familiar to the boy. His hair dampened and his face only seemed to get even more discolored. Patches of skin seemed to disappear slowly.

Slowly.

_Gradually_.

"Class is starting soon! Why are there still kids in here?" the coach came into the locker room.

The curtain was furiously pulled shut and the kids pulled out their paintbrushes. An innocent façade painted on with thick oil paint. Angel halos illuminated the dimly lit room as demon horns hid deceptively in the shadows. Guns cocked behind their backs, roses offered in a free hand.

"Sorry, Coach, we were just chatting and lost track of time," Gilbert's words remind me of a lemon. It looks good on the outside, but when you eat it, it's sour, and can only be eaten when lathered with various fake contents. Only when masking its true form.

"Well, you guys have extra laps at football practice tonight. Hurry up."

The teacher didn't notice the scarlet liquid creeping down the drain.

* * *

Arthur crashed back into consciousness in a fit of coughing. Water accompanied by blood forced its way up his burning throat. His vision was blurred and distorted. He found his body was hard to move, his arm finally shifting with a crack. The boy started to blink faster and he found his sight clearing. His eyes wandered upwards and he immediately winced at the pain of water entering the sensitive orifices.

He was a bit flustered as he got himself together; mind still foggy and wondering what was going on and why it was raining. He placed a hand on his drenched hair that looked more brown than blonde now as he attempted to move again. His lithe figure ached and he hissed as he sat up straight.

_Rain. Water. Scars._

His eyes widened as he realized he was still in the gym locker room and his surroundings finally made sense. It all came back in a flash.

Arthur frantically turned off the water and indistinctively shivered, but he hardly acknowledged the chill. He dug through his backpack and pulled out a container. His movements were shaky and nearly uncertain. He dried his face with the protected gym uniform in a bag, tossing the fabric aside, not caring where it landed.

Opening the container he'd obtained, he dipped his fingers inside and rashly rubbed the skin-colored substance onto his face. He'd picked out another tube of flesh-toned medicine and applied it quickly over the gashes he'd memorized over the years.

Arthur hastily picked up his things and ran from the stall. His shoes splashed in the water decorating the now-not-so-dirty tiles. The very marrow in his bones ached and burned

"_You're okay. You can keep enduring this longer."_

* * *

"You're right, he already left," a disappointed voice called to the rest of them.

The other four found their way to the shower stall, feet splashing in small puddles of water, dissatisfaction evident on their faces—all but one. Alfred stared guiltily into the red-tainted water still falling down the drain with each drip. With each drip he felt himself fall lower and lower in shame.

Something shined in the room. A glare placed in the middle of the small tiles. Alfred walked slowly into the murky atmosphere, and picked up a tube of makeup. It looked like it was some type of concealer. This was the _boy's_ locker room. What was makeup doing in—

…and Alfred suddenly felt ill.

"What's that, Alfred?" Francis asked from behind him, nearly making the teen jump.

Alfred rushed his words and tried to shove the thing into his pocket, "It's nothing."

"You found that in there? The stupid kid must have dropped it when he reached for his purse!" Gilbert bellowed as he grabbed the item from Alfred's fingertips.

"The idiot wears _makeup_?" Antonio leaned forward to see the prize.

The three—along with another boy Alfred still hadn't gotten to know well enough to name—were cracking makeup-related jokes and at one point they even put on themselves and pretended to make a kissy face. Francis seemed _all_ too amused.

"Hey, Gil, ask your girlfriend Elizaveta if we can borrow some of her makeup after world history," Francis's smirk eerily stretched.

Rubies and sapphires glistened in the dim lighting. Gilbert looked at his friend for a moment and then laughed as they shared a look of agreement. Telepathy sure had its charms.

Alfred simply watched them warily; his own twisted mind venturing into their demented thoughts. Thoughts that even fairy Godmothers lost hope in. Alfred simply watched them warily; silently begging them to tell him he was a truly hopeless child. That he was a child and was just assuming things that would never come to pass.

* * *

_ Arthur's lungs burned. How ironic we use the word "burned" to describe the feeling of being drowned. Shouldn't fire and water be opposites? Yet the word describes the dreaded action so perfectly. _

_ He tried to get his arms free from the ropes digging into his wrists, but he availed each time. Like a million needles the bindings pricked his sensitive skin. He daren't open his eyes to see his daddy above him. Ever since he saw the movie, he'd been trying to act it out with his son. _

_ And Arthur knew all too well Waterboarding was not fun. Not at all._

_ Arthur gasped under the surface and felt water flood his system. It forced out the oxygen he desperately craved. His eyes were finally forced open as he felt his last breath drawing nearer. He swallowed more water and choked._

_ At eight years old, Arthur had experienced the unmentionable._

_ Oxygen was forced back into his body and he felt himself coughing up a liter of water. A sharp breath was inhaled as well as a sob. Arthur was naked in his bathtub, at the hands of his daddy. Naked except for the ropes that adorned his wrists and ankles._

_ The ropes that itched and irritated his skin. He so desperately wanted to get out of them, but last time he asked his daddy to be let go, he only tied the bounds tighter. Arthur's pleas went unheard for now. Arthur's pleas always went unheard._

_ Arthur was pulled out of the shallow tub harshly and the child would have grabbed his shoulder at the impact. Tears clouded his vision as well as water that dripped from his hair. He couldn't see his father's face. He couldn't remember what it looked like for the life of him._

_ "Well, you didn't drown this time, Artie," his daddy whispered, "I thought I'd have to give you CPR again."_

_ Almost as soon as the words registered in Arthur's mind, he was pushed back into the water and shoved under, gasping for breath again for the twelfth time._

* * *

The flagpole was cold and chilly despite the sun and its attempts to bake it under its rays of heat. Thin lines and thick lines were encrusted on the cylindrical object that grabbed the clouds in the sky. Around and around the body and around and around the pole. Twists and turns and circles of the woven rope.

Arthur found himself tied tightly to the flagpole outside his school.

Heavy substances of many colors fell iridescent over his cheeks. Over his lips. His lashes and eyelids. His gaze was lowered to the concrete. The hard cement. He slid his hands lower and was able to sit down awkwardly. For so long his face remained placid. For so long he withheld emotion from the hounds.

From six monstrous hounds.

For an hour he'd been tied to the pole, though to the boy, this was but an estimate. A guess to some degree. On his wrist he wore no watch. School let out already and he stared blankly to a barren campus.

_"You're a pretty princess now,"_ they said as they left him.

"_This is to match that makeup we found you dropped_," they said as they abandoned him.

"_You look great in lipstick,"_ they said as their shoes clicked away.

He gazed after them wistfully as their silhouettes contracted smaller. Smaller. Minimized to the size of a nickel. A penny. Dime. He gazed after them wistfully as they disappeared.

As they left him alone under the stars and stripes.

* * *

Alfred returned to school an hour and a half after it ended. His steps were certain and directed towards the courtyard. He changed out of his uniform at home and was now wearing a casual pair of jeans and a hoody. His blue eyes gazed up over the top of the roof where he saw an American flag waving to the birds and bees. A flag waving freedom, yet holding a boy prisoner underneath.

The larger teen involuntarily winced when he saw the pitiful figure sleeping gawkily on the concrete. His arms were twisted as they hung from ropes a foot above his head. His wrists were red and his jacket sagged slightly, sheltering the scars that tried to peek out from behind the curtain. His legs seemed tangled as well.

Alfred took out a pocket knife and cut the rope around his wrists and watched as the frayed pieces fell to the ground. It was still light out, but it was getting dark quickly. The sun started to crawl closer and closer towards the horizon. Arthur's arms dropped to his sides and the sudden movement woke the boy.

Alfred took a step back as Arthur swerved around on all fours almost inhumanely. He lifted his hands and fell backwards on his bottom, his knees still shaking. Alfred had never seen such a fearful expression. He stayed in that position for a while.

"Are you... Going to hurt me?"

Alfred felt his heart fall apart. How blunt the boy was. How sincere he was. His eyes that shined with unshed tears were staring into his own, _expecting_. He couldn't bring himself to answer.

Their eyes stayed locked together for the smallest time before Arthur broke the connection and rolled back over to his hands and knees and started to stumble when he stood up and ran. The first couple steps, he seemed to limp, but then adjusted to the pain and sprinted away faster.

_"I'm going to save everyone!"_

Last time he checked, citizens sought out heroes for help, not run away when they needed it.

Some Super Man he was.

* * *

_What was going on? What was going on? What was going on? What was going on?_

_ What was happening?_

Arthur found himself on a different path than before, yet he always felt the pull to his tree. Gravity fell differently here.

_ Why was I untied? Why was I untied? Why was I untied? Why was I untied?_

_ Why was I released?_

Arthur found himself in a familiar part of the forest. Yes, he always felt the pull of his tree. Gravity fell differently here.

_ Why did he look at me like that? Why did he look at me like that? Why did he look at me like that?_

_ Why was there remorse in his eyes?_

Arthur collapsed by Oscar. The wind whispered to him as he tried to catch each breeze along with his own breath. The grass under him never felt more comforting; his face never felt so heavy. Arthur picked himself up and moved over to the stream only but a few yards away.

Every day, every hour, each minute of his life was always the same. Was always repeated. He'd prepared himself so well for each day, yet what had just happened defied every law he'd engraved in stone.

Something that hadn't fallen under the emotions he'd known his whole life.

_Anger. Frustration. Boredom. Amusement. Sadistic. _

No, it was something else entirely, yet Arthur could not place what it was. What merit was there in releasing him? What did any of this mean? Was he just… _pretending_ to show… something other than cruelty?

_What was happening? Why was I released?_

Arthur began to rinse his face.

* * *

Alfred felt a pinching sensation in his heart when he saw Arthur run away from him. He'd tried to show him kindness… Maybe to show he wasn't a terrible person… But it had no effect on the smaller man.

Alfred felt a familiar pull in the direction Arthur had just ran off in. Some magnetic field that shoved him violently into the footprints encrusted in the mud. His own feet mirrored the same shoes that made the first mark on the ground, and left it slightly bigger.

The teenager found himself in the same field as the day before. The grass so green it'd make you feel guilty for tarnishing it. For some reason, he expected Arthur to be there, like the day before. His gaze wandered from the blades of grass to the outlandish boulder to the oak tree to the river stream to Arthur. The boy was pitifully kneeling by the bank, splashing water in his face and rubbing off the degrading substance.

Arthur turned around with a clean face and Alfred stumbled backwards and could hardly breathe. If he thought his arms were bad, his face was worse. His entire face was a sickly blue-red color, yet not quite purple. It was like someone gave him a bruise on his entire face. There was a multitude of scars covering his cheeks and his chin. Not a patch of flesh went untouched.

Words were scribbled in with a dull knife. From his distance, yet again, he could not read the script for the life of him. Yet one word was encrypted in such large font, even his own weak eyes could read the letters scrawled onto his forehead. The four letters that were shamelessly carved into his skin—even looking as deep as into his skull.

**MINE**

* * *

Alfred watched Arthur as he entered the English classroom. He looked like he did every day. He kept his sandy-blond hair as low on his face as possible, even seeming to shrink physically. His face looked as normally as anyone else's.

Which explained the bottle of makeup that matched his skin tone he'd found.

If Alfred looked closely—_really_ closely—he could see some indents of skin where he presumed scars would be. Arthur fascinated him. How he could look so terrible alone, then look nothing but anti-social in front of others. How he could take all their blows without batting an eyelash, and then go run away to reveal his own beatings that matched even the cruelest of pranks.

The teacher seemed to drone on meaninglessly. With a glance around the classroom, it seemed no one else was paying attention either. Alfred simply spent the period gazing at Arthur, whom seemed to love to draw. He drew sketches on lined paper in a notebook—not the journal Alfred had…

He really hated himself for doing that.

Arthur never brought that same journal to school ever again. Leaving it on the branches of Oscar, Arthur pledged never to let it be damaged. Never to let his daddy's writing be blemished. The words he'd written with his own hand. Hands that were lowered under the Earth's surface in the past.

Alfred wrote a note on a small piece of paper; he chose his words carefully. He gripped the pencil harder as he started to think, occasionally chewing on the eraser end. How was even supposed to do this? Would words alone cover it?

The bell rang too early for his liking and he asymmetrically folded the paper he'd been working on. Most of the kids started chatting almost immediately, some kids seemed like they were counting down the last second and were already out in the hallway. He looked over to Arthur's desk and saw he had already gotten up.

Ignoring his own things, he darted over to Arthur and pushed the squared-page into a pocket of his backpack. And for whatever reason—maybe fate loved him today—Arthur didn't notice a thing. The boy simply continued walking down the aisle between the desks.

Returning to his own desk, Alfred picked up his things (Just a plain blue backpack and scattered notes) and had time to throw one last glance at Arthur before he disappeared out of the doorframe.

Oh and one more thing: the paper? The one that Alfred just put in Arthur's bag? Yeah, that fell to the floor, too. Almost audibly if I might say. Maybe fate just loved to mock the kid.

* * *

**_Well I hope you liked chapter two! I'm not really sure of how this turned out... But I tried~ Thanks for all the reviews last chapter; they all made me suuuper happy :D Updating schedule is every Sunday (If I can... I shall try.) If it's not too hard, review this too? :D_**


	3. Clipped Wings

「あなたにつたえるべきことばさがすけど

みつからないの

つたえることさえ

できないのこんなにも

あふれてるおに

ぼら...

また...

くりかえし...」

_You and Beautiful World, Luka Megurine_

_(Translation at the bottom)_

Alfred pushed through the people crowding around the door and picked up the paper now dingy with footprints. He opened it and sighed. Why was this so hard? In movies, this always worked! A little apology written on a piece of paper and a meeting place, and then BAM they're friends! This was going to take more thought than he originally planned.

* * *

Arthur slid down against the wall of the library. He always found peace in this building. He doubted those jocks even knew where it was— what this place was even.

The loved pages of printed words brought melodies and remedies to his heart. For once, he felt like nothing was wrong. For a minute, he was Alice, talking to the Hatter and having a tea party. Why was a raven like a writing desk? To Arthur, they both had freedom. A raven could fly away and soar to its heart's desires. A writing desk held power and could write words. It had knowledge and could heal broken souls.

He was Harry, casting spells and playing with his two friends. He flew away on a broomstick, feeling the wind under his locks and breathing in the smell. What it might smell like to be important. To have someone depend on you… Your existence.

Lunch break was almost over. The librarians always let him eat in the library, knowing his current situation. One had tried to tell the principal, but he said he'd need proof. However, Arthur knew he simply didn't care. Didn't have time.

Arthur hesitantly put his books back on the shelves, waved "bye" to the librarians and started walking to his next class. He clutched his notebooks in his arms tightly and his backpack on his back. He thought he was making pretty good progress today—until he faceplanted into a tree.

Really? _Every_ day?

His green eyes lifted to meet a single pair of blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair.

Francis. Honestly, with how repetitive this was, he should have been able to guess.

Arthur spun around and faced his bully. He really didn't have time for this. Next class was art; his favorite aside from English. If he was late he'd miss one of the only things he really liked about school.

Attempting to escape, he ducked under an arm and tried to run for it until his wrist was yanked and he felt his shoulder pop out of place and his back hit the tree again, knocking the wind out of him. Gasping for breath, he looked up again.

"S-Stop. Just let me go to class," he said almost pleadingly.

"He speaks!" Francis teased and cupped his cheek. "Maybe we can find something better for those lips though…"

Francis started to lean forward mockingly, earning a slap from the smaller boy.

"Don't hit me," Francis growled and punched Arthur's left cheek and gripping his chin again, forcing their eyes together.

Francis held his wrists together above his head, against the tree with one hand, and his chin in place with the other. The older man licked Arthur's neck, feeling him start to squirm under him. He sucked on a piece of skin, then bit it before his mouth moved up and claimed his lips.

Arthur tried to shake his head away, but Francis was stronger than him. His shoulders shrugged helplessly, as if the action would gain more distance. Eventually he settled for kneeing his molester in the stomach.

Francis stumbled backwards and Arthur finally gasped for breath, shaking while he wiped foreign saliva from his lips.

"Don't push me away," Francis threatened as he groped the younger one's behind, receiving a yelp of surprise and discomfort.

Arthur scratched at Francis's face, drawing a line of blood.

"If you're trying to wait for the special one, don't bother," he said darkly as he drew his face nearer. "You'll never be loved, you disgusting excuse for a human. You might as well accept my actions before you die with your virginity. Not that I'd actually like to touch your revolting body, I just love to see you _squirm_."

Arthur swallowed and mustered up all his courage, pushing him away again with a large shove.

"Oh, do you like it rough?" Francis chuckled darkly and punched the boy in the neck.

Arthur gasped for breath again, hands covering his neck in protection. He swallowed multiple times before he felt he could breathe again. Francis pushed him onto the hard grass and crawled over top of him, pinning him to the ground. His sinful hands roamed Arthur's frail frame, leaving fear sitting in his eyes.

He flailed his arms and legs, trying to get loose, but this only seemed to urge Francis on. A sadistic smile grew on his face and he held his wrists tighter.

"Just enjoy yourself…" Francis cooed in his ear and licked the shell teasingly.

Arthur bashed his head into Francis's loosening his hold and he managed to crawl out from under him.

Francis touched his cut lip and angered eyes stared after the escaping figure. Standing to his feet, Francis kicked Arthur's head before he could stand, sending him back to the soil. He repeated action four more times, and then twice to his stomach until the figure stopped moving.

With a huff of annoyance, the older man stomped off in the direction of his next class. Leaving Arthur unconscious on the crimson grass.

The warning bell rang.

* * *

Alfred eyed Arthur's empty chair. He was fairly certain the man was in English class this morning. Nervously chewing his lip, explanations flew through his mind.

_He got sick and had to go home. He didn't like art and felt like skipping. He finally told someone about his bullies and was in the guidance counselor's office. Bullies…_

Alfred tasted blood when he bit his lip harder. Eager to get the metallic taste out of his mouth, he raised his hand for permission to go to the bathroom. Really, the water fountain, but if he asked for that, the teacher had a record of saying "Wait for the break between classes. I know you're not dehydrating."

Pass in hand, Alfred walked down the hall towards the water fountain when he glanced out the window.

Grey grass and trees were showing up. A building that Alfred guessed was the library was outside the window. More trees passed as he continued down the hall . More trees and—_red_ grass? _Arthur_?

Thoughts of water were abandoned as Alfred sprinted out the nearest door and took a sharp turn in the direction of the library. Being the best in track had its perks; at least he was a fairly fast runner.

He finally made it to Arthur's body, which felt like it took an hour. The boy was lying in a twisted way, his face was on the ground and his torso was somewhat on its side. One arm was draped over his side where it resided in the middle of his back and the other was straight out. His legs were tangled together to where it almost looked like he was sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce. He was still unconscious.

Alfred picked up his shoulders so that his face was facing him. He laid him on his lap and tried to brush the dirt off of his face, but it was stuck to the thick coat of makeup. Too afraid to rise off the makeup—whether for the fact others could see his scars or the fact if he could stomach it or not, I will never know—he left the grains of sand on his cheeks.

He picked up the fragile boy in his arms and tried to inconspicuously make it off campus. Surprisingly, no one had been wandering the school at the time, so he got out of the school gates easily. Alfred didn't have to think about where to go. He already knew he should bring him to the meadow he escaped to each day.

Arthur began to stir in his arms and Alfred immediately stopped moving, staring at his shut eyes. His face scrunched up and then his green eyes fluttered open, staring straight into sapphires. The emeralds widened drastically and Alfred saw only one emotion crawling out of them.

Fear.

He started to flail his arms, pushing at his chest, even letting out an involuntary scream. With a final kick to Alfred's knee, he got released and his body plummeted to the asphalt. Arthur groaned in pain and clutched his side, however remembering he was not alone, he quickly hid the action and tried to climb to his feet.

"Arthur, wait!" Alfred shouted.

"S-Stop it! Plea-ease," Arthur's words were choppy and hoarse as he crawled backwards.

"I'm not going—"

_"To hurt you~"_ Alfred's voice blended together with a voice similar to Arthur's dad.

Arthur couldn't help the scream that cut through the air, his hands clapping over his ears and he pulled himself into a ball.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" Alfred ran to his side, yet too scared to touch him.

"Daddy, d-don't…" he whispered.

_"I know you only did it because you wanted to mark me as your own."_

_**MINE**_

_"But it really hurt, daddy."_

"Arthur, this is Alfred…" he said softly and tried to touch his shoulder.

The boy on the ground flinched and whimpered.

"I'm going to pick you up now… I'll take you home."

Alfred picked up a shivering Arthur again, and this time he didn't fight him. He was curled into his chest as they made their way through the forest. The branches of the trees mystically moved out of their way on their own, the vines twisting out of their path. Alfred stared down at Arthur's panicked face and felt his heart twist.

Setting a still-balled-up-Arthur on the ground, Alfred stepped back and sat down about a meter away. Arthur moved and faced away from him, still shaking. Alfred just watched him for ten minutes before he seemed to finally calm himself down.

"Why?" a hoarse whisper floated in the air.

"Why?" Alfred repeated the question. In entirety, he meant "Why what?"

"You…" Arthur's voice drifted off.

"Why not?" Alfred answered the absent accusation. "Do I need a reason?"

Arthur answered with silence.

"You know, with how long I've been gone on this 'bathroom break' I'll be getting a new nickname," Alfred stated to fill the void.

The words made Arthur shudder. Alfred was mad at him… He'd made him miss art class and now he'd get called out for his "bathroom break." Anger… Arthur was scared of anger.

"But I don't care," Alfred laughed.

Laugh? Most people don't show anger while laughing… What's this emotion Arthur's sensing? Sometimes sadists laughed… Was Alfred sadistic? But he was… _h-helping_ him…  
Suddenly, nothing made sense anymore.

After another grueling period of silence, Alfred asked, "What happened?"

Arthur instinctively covered his body more and trembled. He didn't answer.

"Can't you tell me..? What did they do to you?"

Arthur shook his head slightly and a whimper criminally escaped his lips at the memory.

Alfred's face dropped at the answer.

_He doesn't trust me._

_ Why should he?_

"At least… Who?" hope nipped at the edges of Alfred's voice, and after a period of silence, he got his answer.

"Francis," came a choked sob. His voice cracked at the end.

Alfred finally crawled closer to him, noting how his muscles tightened and his body stiffened. He protected himself more at his presence. Alfred put a hand on his hair and felt Arthur flinch and a sharp gasp came from the boy.

_Here it comes. Here it comes. They always hurt. Everyone hurts me. Bigger people hit. Little people tease. They hurt me. They always hurt me. Even when helping they—_

"Shh…" he ran his fingers through his hair, "I'm sorry."

_Sorry_. He'd never heard the word before. Said it… but heard it..? "Sorry" is a word you use when you don't want to be hit right? He wasn't any threat to Alfred…

"W-What does that mean?" Arthur said shakily.

"What's what mean?" Alfred asked.

"Sorry?"

Arthur… Had never heard the word "sorry" before? Tears screamed and begged to be released, but Alfred denied every request. He couldn't cry in front of Arthur.

"It's…" his voice wavered, "What you say when you regret doing something. I regret… Ever hurting you. I'm sorry."

The words processed one word at a time in Arthur's mind, only one question surfacing, "Why?"

"It was wrong…" Alfred whispered as he continued to pet Arthur's hair. "I want to be your friend."

Arthur felt himself relax under Alfred's touch. He always hated being touched. It hurt. Touching hurt. But Alfred… His touch didn't hurt. It felt… Something. Something not hurt.

"Friend… I've read that word before…"

Alfred bit his lip harder. How messed up could this man's life _be_?

Arthur felt himself roll over to face Alfred. His eye lids felt droopy and he felt himself falling asleep, and within minutes, he was.

Alfred watched him fall under the spell of fatigue and smiled. He simply watched him. Arthur's hair fell over his face almost angelically. Like a fallen angel.

_Your frayed wings have been clipped years ago, but they will grow, Arthur. You'll be able to fly again._

His eyes wandered around after a while. He couldn't go home yet since school was still going on and his parents would question him being home early, and he didn't want to go back to school. He looked up to the branches of Oscar and saw a book sitting on one of his thick arms.

_"A hit-and-run?"_

_ "Give it back to me!"_

_ "I told you, if you want it, sit!"_

_ "…Woof."_

Alfred cringed.

He reached up and turned the journal over in his hands gingerly. Arthur had never spoken to him or anyone when he was teased or beat up except for that one time… What made this book so important?

The crinkle of ancient pages were heard as Alfred opened the journal.

* * *

_ "Welcome to third grade!" a cheerful woman with short blond hair said happily as she waved her arms dramatically. "I'm so happy to be your teacher! Let's be real good friends okay?"_

_ The children sitting at their desks looked somewhat interested in the woman's speech. Arthur watched her carefully._

Big people hurt…_ he thought. _Big people hurt…

_ "Now, I'd like everyone to take a journal," she said as she motioned towards a stack of blank books on the table next to her. "It's important to write every day! I won't check it unless you'd like me to, but you should try to write at least one entry a week. Try to write what happened to you, or just short stories. It'll be fun!"_

_ The kids got up towards the front and crowded around the table. Arthur was near the front of the group since he was sitting closer to the table. The notebooks disappeared one by one by the hands of the small children. _

_ Arthur set his tiny hands on a smaller journal with leather binding. He hurried back to his seat and watched the rest of the vultures devour their prey. Eventually, only two journals were left. He gazed back to the book in his hands and flipped through the pages. _

_ This was his. He could do anything in it. _

_ The teacher allowed them time to write something quick before they continued with their school day, and Arthur picked up his pencil. With scribbles as letters, he started to write. _

_ He decided on a short story. Being in third grade, it was nothing special. The vocabulary wasn't the best, the syntax was a bit childish—but wasn't Arthur? _

_ He wrote about a tree that grew in a barren desert. No one dared to venture into it. But one day, a man did. He had a backpack and water and was prepared for a long, grueling journey. He found the tree and was shocked. There were fruit growing on it! _

_ The man took the fruit from the tree and the ground started to shake, and it swallowed him up. He fell into another universe where everything was nice and happy, and he lived there forever. He lived there in bliss._

_ But no one else dared to enter the desert again. Not after a man entered and never returned. The fable was published to the world as a tragedy, when really, the only tragedy was that no one else experienced the same elation._

* * *

_ Arthur found his way back to his apartment. He and his daddy lived on the second floor, room 42. He'd memorized the number since he was seven and had to go to school. He'd actually gotten lost before that and had to sleep out in the lobby until someone asked who he was and helped him._

_ The apartment wasn't the fanciest, but it wasn't he dingiest either. It had five rooms. A kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living room. In his room, he had a single bed, and that was it. His father had a larger bed, a desk, some furniture, and a case. _

_ Arthur feared that case._

_ When he arrived home, his father had left out Chinese take-out from his lunch. The food was cold, but Arthur learned that heat was a benefit only good children got. He often ate his food cold._

_ Arthur took a small hill of fried rice and sat at the table, kicking his feet that were too short to touch the ground. He ate his food happily, still looking at the journal to his right. Arthur felt himself smile._

_ His father stumbled into the room a bit later. His heavy footsteps making Arthur shrink in his chair, yet at the same time, looking up to his daddy. He loved his daddy. He was all he had. Was it possible to fear him and love him at the same time? Maybe hurting was his way of showing he loved him… Arthur still doesn't know the reasons behind everything to this day._

_ "What's that?" he said almost curiously as he took the journal from the table, sitting sloppily in a chair beside his son._

_ "Miss Vaugn gave it to us today. We're supposed to write in it a lot! I like to write," he grinned._

_ Arthur loved the moments when he and his daddy could be in the same room peacefully. He wished he could hug him. He saw other people hug their dads before, and it looked like fun. Once he tried though._

_ "And you wrote this?" his dad said, disbelief pinching at his vocal chords._

_ "Yes! Do you like it daddy?" _

_ "It's horrible," he spat and threw the book across the room. "You ended it wrong."_

_ Arthur's lower lip trembled as he ran to pick up his journal. His father was getting a pen from his room. Arthur opened the pages and reread his story. So this was what a horrible story looked like. He wondered what a good one looked like. Could he write one?_

_ His thoughts were interrupted when his father snatched the book from his hands and started to write in it, throwing it back at him when he was done._

_ "Now, it's complete."_

_ Arthur read the script written with his father's hand._

_ He'd changed it._

_ Now, the man who fell down into the ground fell into Hell. He was tortured for the rest of his life for taking something that wasn't his. He begged and pleaded to be let go, he gave them back the fruit, but nothing helped. He was hopeless._

_ The others found he didn't return and went to search for him. They took the fruit as well and suffered the same fate._

_ "Oh…" Arthur whispered._

_ So depressing and gory was good? _

_ "Here, let me write more," his father took the book again, writing across the pages._

_**You're so stupid. I can't believe you're alive. I wish you would die. You're lucky I'm your father, anyone else would have killed you by now. You're a disgrace. You disgust me. You're hardly a man and you never will be. Love is a fantasy. Everything you like I hate. Everything you have, I will take from you. I hate you. You're worthless.**_

_ The list went on and on down three pages; some words, Arthur didn't know. _

_ That night, he looked them up in his dictionary._

_ That night, he wept._

* * *

Alfred stared at the book, dirty and discolored. Some writing was tiny and written as if the author was young. Some was larger, clearer, bolder as if the author was older. The smaller writing was always stories. They started out sweet, then as the pages flew by, they got darker and more gruesome. Pages were tainted with scarlet liquids and the pages were crinkled. On one page, the writing was completely scribbled out with an angry pen. On another it was plain red. Not paint red, but something else…

The thought of it made Alfred sick.

Pages were torn and Alfred realized that the tears were new. That the tears held his fingerprints over them.

The bolder text was always harsh, crude, disgusting… What other words could describe it?

Alfred's jaw fell slightly down when he saw drawings. The drawings written with the same thick pen. It looked like a boy… Getting cut? The boy looked as if the cried out in pain and the knife was slashing all over his body. One thing was drawn to the side… _It looked like…Was the boy missing a..?_

Alfred glanced from the slanderous book to his sleeping angel.

Why was Arthur so fond of this thing?

_It looked like…_

A look of utter revulsion—utter horror—overtook his features.

It couldn't be… Could it? This was… _Arthur's_ journal after all… if he really was that boy…

Alfred bit his lip and reached over to Arthur cautiously, checking to make sure he didn't wake up. He gently pulled back the sleeve of his jacket.

No luck. His hand was in a fist.

Even more carefully, he daringly tried to unbundle his fingers, which he succeeded in.

He staggered backwards, sitting on his bottom, supporting his weight with his arms. He stared after Arthur fearfully. More specifically his hand. Even more specifically, his fingers.

Or even _more_ specifically his non-existent pinky finger.

* * *

**_You know what? Screw schedules. I update when I want. LOL Anywaysss hope you liked this chapter~ I've had so many great ideas for fanfictions and I'm tempted to write more than one at once, but I'll try to stay with one at a time XD _**  
**_I hope it was enjoyable! Don't forget to review :D_**

**_"There's something I wish I could tell you, and though I search,_**

**_I cannot find the words._**

**_Even though the things to say_**

**_Are overflowing,_**

**_I can't do it._**

**_Look at me..._**

**_This keeps repeating..._**

**_And now everything's dark..."_**


	4. In the Eyes of the Enemy

"_I've become so numb_

_I can't feel you there._

_I've become so tired;_

_So much more aware._

_I'm becoming this,_

_And all I want to do_

_Is be more like me and be less like you."_

_-Numb, Linkin Park_

**Part one: Francis**

_"Hey, what's this?" Francis pulled a magazine from under his brother's bed._

_ "Whoa there, Francis. Twelve is too young to be looking at this stuff," his brother snatched the magazine back with a laugh._

_ The two often spent afternoons together. Francis admired his brother._

_ Francis looked up at his older brother. He wanted to be big like him. His brother could drive anywhere he wanted, he could do anything he wanted, he could go get pizza and stay out late—he didn't even have a bedtime!_

_ "I'm old enough! Just show me! What is it?" he tried to lean over his brother's broad shoulder._

_ "Ah, what the heck," his brother proclaimed and moved so Francis could see. _

_ Francis looked at the lewd pictures of the magazine. Where was everyone's clothes? What were those… Things? Confusion took over his features and his brother laughed at him, obviously reading his mind._

_ "Dad never gave me 'the talk' so he probably won't do it to you, so I'll tell you. You see, when you really like someone…" his brother started going into detail of the magazine, going as far as to pointing at the pictures._

_ "But why aren't they wearing clothes?" Francis asked ignorantly._

_ "You don't use clothes when you have sex."_

_ "So it happens when a girl and a guy really like each other? They just take off their clothes?" _

_ His brother answered with another laugh, "unless you prefer to do it with guys, yeah, kinda like that. You also say things to them when it's happening, to get them excited or whatever."_

_ "Boys, dinner's ready!" a call came from downstairs. "What are you doing up there?"_

_ The two brothers exchanged looks and bolted for the door, the aroma of mashed potatoes and gravy wafting into their nostrils._

* * *

Francis left the cafeteria earlier than his friends. He was going to get a book from the library—not that he would admit that to Antonio, Gilbert, or even this new kid Alfred.

He took a look around his shoulder, and continued to walk towards the library. His favorite book was Alice in Wonderland, and he was going to go check it out again. He could read it all day, every day. He loved how Alice seemed to be searching for herself as well. Francis was stuck in this high school, trying to be like everyone else until he received his cap and gown.

He had about ten minutes before lunch was over, so he hurried to the fiction section, only to find the book was missing. With a frustrated groan, he sat down by the book shelf and pouted theatrically.

His eyes glanced up and saw a boy across the library. He felt his heart beat faster. It was Arthur.

For two years he'd been in love with him.

He's tried to tell him so many times… but it just always came out wrong. He always looked scared of him, and Francis couldn't figure out why. He wasn't that much bigger than him, and he didn't _look_ scary—at least not in his opinion.

He saw the book in his hands. Alice in Wonderland.

His heart felt so light and he held his knees to his chest. He was just so perfect. He was so smart, so cute, and they had similar tastes…

Suddenly the boy moved, pushing a book into a shelf, then starting to head towards him. Francis started to panic and darted for the door. He didn't know what to say if he saw him. What was to say? He made it outside and he assumed Arthur hadn't seen him. He hoped not.

Arthur came out of the door after him and he felt himself reaching out to call after him, yet recoiling before he got the chance.

Eventually, he settled for trying to pat his back—wait that was too hard. Crap, did he hurt him? Arthur tried to run away from him… Why did he always run away?

_"Wait, don't go,"_ Francis said in his head as he grabbed his wrist to prevent him from doing so.

Ugh, that turned out wrong too! He just slammed the kid into a tree!

"P-Please, just let me go to class," Arthur spoke softly.

_H-He talked to me… That's the first step right? Communication? Maybe he does feel the same…_

"He speaks!" Francis said in elation, "Maybe we can find something better for those lips though…"

Francis felt his heart about to jump out of his chest as he leaned forward. Maybe Arthur would make the first move?

Suddenly his cheek stung.

"Don't hit me," Francis was hurt, both physiologically and physically.

Before he realized it, he found his own fist hurling towards Arthur's cheek. _Damn_, why did it always end like this? He really didn't mean to…

Eye contact. Eye contact is key.

Francis held his chin to look into his beautiful eyes.

_So… Not what? What do I do now? I… kiss him? I don't know! _

_ "When you really like someone," brother told me._

Francis started to lick Arthur's neck, feeling him shudder under him. So he was doing it right? Did Arthur want this too? He moved up to his beauteous lips and pressed his own onto them. He was so beautiful. His heart was beating so fast, it couldn't be recorded.

Francis felt Arthur shake his head, so he did want it? He was trying to kiss back? He felt urged on.

Francis gasped at a sharp pain in his stomach. Arthur _kicked_ him?

"Don't push me away," Francis pleaded and he tried to take the next step, letting his hands roam Arthur's body.

Wait, did Arthur already have someone? Was he… in love with someone else?

_No! _

"If you're trying to wait for the special one, don't bother," Francis said warily.

_I'm your special one_.

"You'll never be loved—" _by anyone other than me._

"—you disgusting excuse for a human."

_Wait… That came out wrong…_

"You might as well accept my actions before you die with your virginity. Not that I'd actually like to touch your revolting body, I just love to see you _squirm_."

_I don't mean that! I- I didn't! It just came out! No, no, no, no…_

He was pushed again.

M-Maybe Arthur just liked it better this way? He'd read about people maybe being masochistic and don't like to be treated gently… That had to be it. He _needed_ Arthur to love him.

"Oh, do you like it rough?" he asked and playfully returned the motion—wait he missed… Crap, not again! Why did he always hurt him?

Francis watched Arthur feel his injured throat.

_I really didn't mean it! H-Here, I'll try to make it better..?_

Francis pushed his love onto the grass and leaned over top of him. This is what you do right? Arthur started to fidget under him, flailing his arms and trying to kick.

_Stop it! J-Just let me love you! _"Just enjoy yourself."

He felt Arthur bang his head up and clanged their hands together. The force made him bite his lip and he tasted blood.

_ Why… Why can't I just do this? Why won't you love me? Why can't you see that I just want to be your boyfriend? What's wrong with you? Why can't I just do this? Do you not love me? I know you do! Just… Please… Let me do this…_

Why was Arthur on the ground—why was he towering over him? Was there b-blood on his shoe? Did he do this?

Francis felt his breathing hitch and he put his head in his hands.

_Why… Why can't I do anything right?_

Francis heard the warning bell ring and he darted off to his fifth period.

_I… I love you, Arthur. I'm sorry... okay?_

* * *

**Part two: Gilbert**

Freshman year.

His first time in America, and he had to attend high school there. He begged his dad to let him just relax the first year, but he informed him it was illegal in America not to go to school. He just moved from Prussia—_Not_ Germany—to America and now had to attend Hetalia High. He hardly spoke any English and if he did it was hard to understand through his thick accent.

Back in Prussia, Gilbert wasn't considered the brightest among students. He wasn't the funniest, the coolest, the most appreciated. He was rather annoying according to a few (almost all) of the people that he'd grown acquainted with. Just what was he supposed to do to be noticed? What was that American word that's used to describe it…

Awesome?

Gilbert was not awesome.

He knew this year was going to suck.

Though, surprisingly within the first week, he'd made friends with a boy Francis whom then introduced him to Antonio. English was their second language as well, but they spoke French and Spanish as their mother tongue. At least he wasn't a loner.

His second month into school, he found himself sitting alone for lunch. Francis had detention and Antonio was taking a math quiz. He poked around at his lunch tray. He wasn't feeling very hungry today.

With a sigh, he picked up the Styrofoam plate and stood, meeting something very big and his tray toppling over. He looked up to see a larger man with white hair (much like his own) and purple eyes. And what was with that scarf? Who wears a scarf in summer?

He realized in horror that his food has spilled all over the shirt of the man whom was a whole head taller than him. Some orange type of… Vegetable..? was splattered in the middle, and some of the meat stuck to the fabric. Some food dropped from his shirt that looked so nicely clean this morning.

"Oh, crap, dude, I'm so sorry!" Gilbert proclaimed as he tried to hand him a napkin.

A hush fell over the cafeteria and he realized everyone was staring at them. And what was this aura? Gilbert suddenly felt chilly.

Gilbert stood awkwardly under the eyes of his peers, trying to think of what to do. Why was everyone staring at him?

"U-Um… Here… I have some wipes if you want to use them…" he said quietly and dug through his backpack to get them.

The other teen was leaning over his shoulder. Gilbert found the item he was looking for and blindly pulled his elbow back into the stranger's eye. Gilbert realized what he did and started to get flustered.

"I-I didn't mean to do that either!" he sputtered and watched as the man angrily stood and stormed out of the cafeteria.

The atmosphere was heavy in the room and the place was still silent. Gilbert sat back down in his chair warily, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. What was everyone looking at?

Then, without warning, a huge shout erupted from one of the tables. Other people started to join in and yelp in happiness. They clapped and a couple actually patted Gilbert on the back. Cheers rang out like claps of thunder.

"Dude, that was awesome!"

"I can't _believe_ you did that!"

"To Ivan, too! You have guts, kid!"

"On accident? I bet it was planned."

"I hear he's German."

"No—_Prussian_. He told me himself. It's an awesome version of German."

"That's why he's so strong!"

"He's so brave!"

"He's so awesome!"

…Awesome?

They thought he was _awesome_?

Gilbert smiled to himself as he recollected his thoughts. He thought this would be worse than school in Prussia. He thought he'd be lost in the crowd again. He thought he'd never be awesome. What did he have to do again?

Just beat people up?

Tease them?

Gilbert's grin widened.

Gilbert was awesome.

* * *

**Part three: Antonio**

_Always smile. Always keep others smiling. Always laugh. _Antonio chanted in his mind.

A never ending spell that was always repeated. He waved his magic wand and the pixie-dust coated those around him. Teeth were shown and smiles were stretched. Antonio's happiness came with others.

"So, during gym, you know how that Arthur kid always changes in the shower curtain?" Gilbert asked, receiving encouraging stares from his friends. "I have a totally _awesome_ idea."

And so that day was actually planned by the infamous Bad Touch Trio. It was no random act that was just done on impulse; no, each detail was planned out thoroughly.

The three also managed to get Alfred and another boy to tag along. Alfred seemed skeptical, almost hesitant when he walked with them. The chatter of the children in the locker room did nothing to sooth the eerie silence building in their minds. They knew all too well what they were about to do.

Gilbert was going to be awesome.

Francis was tagging along.

Alfred was following to insure nothing got too out of hand.

The other boy, purely because he was honored to be chosen by the group.

Antonio followed to keep their smiles engraved in stone. He would do what they said so they would be happy.

They seemed to take Arthur by surprise as Gilbert led the boys predatorily.

Antonio watched from the sidelines as Gilbert started the cruel treatment, Francis joining in a bit later. He watched Arthur's lips creased into a line. The boy hardly showed emotion.

_Always keep others smiling._

Gilbert smiled. Francis smiled.

Was he supposed to help Arthur or go along with Francis and Gilbert? How could he make Arthur smile? Could he iron out the stress wrinkles in his skin? His eyes followed each punch, wincing at the sound of contact. He saw Alfred's smile fall.

Two people were unhappy. Why was Alfred unhappy? How could he make him happier? Francis and Gilbert were grinning with eat hit, though Francis seemed to look remorseful. His smile almost fake. Why would you fake your smile, Francis? Gilbert's smile looked influenced. His face looked conflicted. Why are you unhappy, Gilbert?

Antonio half-heartedly smashed his fist into the boy's shoulder. Francis had his hands restricted—as if the boy need to be held back. Judging from his stoic features, the boy had been broken for long now. Where could he find the glue?

More yelps of pain surfaced. His smile degraded impossibly lower.

Gilbert gave Antonio a look that said "_shut him up before we get caught_," and he found himself pushing his chin up, forcing his lips together.

"Please smile," Antonio whispered inaudibly to himself as he tried to force the corners of his lips up.

Gilbert grabbed the roots of Arthur's hair and threw him against the wall.

Antonio watched as blood started to coat the corners of Arthur's smile.

The group seemed satisfied with their work that day, and huddled around Francis whom had a tiny cellphone camera recording playing. Francis smiled a stiff, wavering grin. A fake smile. Why are you faking it, Francis?

_How can I make you smile?_

"This is so awesome," the extra boy chimed in, looking for recognition from the more popular teens.

"I'm here, of course it was!" Gilbert arrogantly proclaimed as he jabbed a thumb to his chest.

He grinned widely.

The group started to laugh at the screen and Antonio felt his own lips curve as he joined in.

_Always smile. Always keep others smiling. Always laugh. _Antonio chanted in his mind.

Antonio looked around to twisted smiles_— _but they were smiles nonetheless. He'd accomplished his goal for this group.

* * *

**Part four: Alfred**

_Alfred was pushed into a red locker. His face was contorted as he stared angrily at the pursuers. Just two boys his age, height, and by the looks of it, they weren't as strong. Nothing he couldn't handle._

_ "Buzz off, I'm going to be late for class," he growled and picked himself up._

_ Only laughter answered him as they shoved him again. "What'cha gonna do about it, fag?"_

_ Alfred returned the action accompanied by a rebel fist. He pushed his hair back into place and started to walk away again until it seemed the idiots weren't done with him. They pushed him onto the ground and grabbed his stuff._

_ One of the two kids went through his notebook, absent-mindedly reading the notes. Another just went through his backpack. It only held school supplies in it, so it wasn't really that big of a deal. If anything, Alfred was merely annoyed at the kids._

_ "Come on, give it back," he pushed an open palm in their direction._

_ Honestly, what was their problem? Not only was he going to be late to English, now the stupid kids were going to be tardy for their next class, too. With four tardies already, Alfred didn't think the whole "I forgot where class was" excuse would work again._

_ "Haha, as if," one said, "you know, if you really want it back, be our little doggy!"_

_ "Sit, doggy!" one cooed in his ear, dangling a notebook in front of him._

* * *

_ Alfred said in his next period, notebooks and all. Those kids were idiots._

_ Honestly, who would do something so degrading over a notebook? Maybe if he took his toy alien, Tony, he'd screw them up badly (y'know, if they actually posed a threat to him.) He settled for just hitting them hard enough to get his things back. If he was late to English class again, he would probably get detention._

_ "Alfred, you're needed in the front office," his teacher told him disinterested as the lesson continued undeterred._

_ Alfred ignored the various "Oohhhh~"s as he continued towards the door. Hands shoved in his pockets, he walked alone down the halls, seeing the occasional kids whom liked to skip class. He gave a subtle wave their way and they grinned cockily back._

_ "Alfred, this is the tenth fight you've gotten into this school year," his principal reprimanded._

_ "Okay, this time I really was provoked," Alfred defended._

_ The principal gave him a look that screamed "Oh really? That's totally believable, because I have my degree in being fooled by children and their excuses."_

_ "Even so, you can't go around doing those things. I told you last time as a warning, and now you're going to be expelled."_

_ "Expelled?! No way, dude! My parents are going to kill me!" Alfred stood from his chair._

_ "One: I'm not your 'dude.' Two: That's not my problem. You're being rezoned to a neighboring town. It's only been three months into school this year. Do you really need to start all those fights?"_

_ Alfred sulked in his chair. _

_ Okay, so maybe a _few_ fights were because it was just too tempting to stop. After all, same things happened to him, and he's fine—tougher even. If anything, he's helping those kids grow up. But sometimes he was provoked! Where were those people's punishment?_

_ By the time he got home, his mom was already aware of the news via email. She stood angrily at the front door when he got off the bus. It seemed he was rezoned to Hetalia High School._

_ Where the heck is that?_

* * *

Within the first week of school, he was already recruited by sport teams because of his muscular build. Honestly, he wasn't a big fan of sports, but he decided the best way to adapt to this stupid school was to do whatever they did. When in Rome, do as the Romans.

He'd met Gilbert from the football team. (The awesome Gilbert, he always reminded him.) Starting to hang out around them more often, he got to know his two friends Francis and Antonio. They'd seemed to like picking on kids, too. Alfred felt a bit irritated that he'd got expelled for doing these things, yet no one ever tattled on Francis or Antonio.

Gilbert later explained, it's who you pick to play around with. Some would tell the authorities, and others would take it all without a word.

Like the kids Raivis, Eduard, Arthur, Feliks and Toris. They were pretty much open game according to Gilbert.

After a while of following them around, he noticed they were… more cruel so to speak with their actions. Gilbert seemed almost desperate to show he was stronger than anyone else, and Francis only seemed to join in after watching Gilbert, and Antonio seemed to study everyone carefully with a silly smile.

Soon, Alfred seemed to adapt to their harsh treatments. It became normal for him to see. He even helped out sometimes.

_I've been through similar things. You'll be fine. I'm fine today, so you're fine, too. You'll wake up tomorrow stronger. Tougher. Better._

* * *

**Part five: In the Eyes of the Enemy.**

Most days, Gilbert would start the brawls, yelling he was awesome so people had to listen to him. Francis normally joined in and agreed with his claim. Antonio smiled. Alfred watched them.

_"Okay, so I still need to plan something else awesome to keep people thinking I'm awesome… I've never been awesome… I need to keep myself up. I need to plan something else,"_ ran through Gilbert's mind. "_Francis and Antonio are doing it, too, and I can't let them down."_

_ "I love you, Arthur. I really do, but I'm sorry. What do I do about Gilbert and Antonio? They're my best friends. I can't just ditch them. If I stand up to them, what if they stop being my friends? I'm sorry," _ran through Francis's mind as he hit Arthur again.

_"I have to keep everyone smiling. If I don't, who will? This keeps two people smiling, and you never seem to smile anyways. I don't know how to help you. I just have to keep doing this. If I stopped would you smile? Francis and Gilbert are doing this, I can't let them down,"_ ran through Antonio's mind.

_"This isn't hurting you that much. I just want to blend in the rest of senor year, and by the time you have your graduation speech ready, you'll be tough like me. Nothing's wrong with this. Plus, Antonio, Gilbert, and Francis are doing it. It can't be that wrong,"_ ran through Alfred's mind.

_"I don't really like doing this… but I can't let my friends down. If they're doing it, I have to, too," _they all thought in unison.

* * *

**I uploaded this really early because I felt it was closely linked to the previous chapter. That and I kept getting review saying "Why are they picking on Arthur?"**  
**Well, the answer is in this chapter, hopefully. They each have their own reason, but overall, they all want to be like their friends and do the same things they are doing. As mentioned, Arthur is not the only target. However, since the story follows Arthur, it focuses on those moments. (Also in the first chapter that Francis was off to bother Feliks in the scene with Arthur's homework.)**

**And that super long guest review finally showed up! I LOVE LONG REVIEWSSS :D You caught that time I "accidentally" went into first person on "accident" that wasn't on "purpose?" "Oops" I "didn't mean" to do that...**

**FORESHADOWWW DUNDUNDUNNNN *Plays music* I'll leave it up to you to interpret what I mean by that... :P**

**And yes, I often write late at night so my grammar might get a little mixed up sometimes.. XD **

**I'm glad my story caught your attention, mystery guest OwO I always like it when someone analyzes my story. I feel like I'm writing well enough for it to _be_ analyzed. (I over-analyze too...)**

**Well isn't this a long Author's Note? See ya next time, and don't forget to review!**


	5. Empty Chairs

"_As if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit."_

_-To This Day, Shane Koyczan_

_(I'm in love with this quote. Wake up call to anyone who didn't know that, gosh darn it. PS: This is an audio poem. Look it up on Youtube if you haven't already heard it.)_

**_**Back to the normal storyline now :3_**

An empty chair was audibly ringing in Alfred's left ear. Arthur hadn't been to class the following day. The air was thick with anticipation of the teen and still he had yet to make an appearance. And though the crowd cheered and clapped, yelling for him to come, the act had been cancelled that day, and there were no refunds. The act consisted of only one boy.

Alfred let his thoughts wander and paid no attention to letters flying onto the board in the front of the class. He let his thoughts wander. Wander to the mysterious boy whom he found yesterday. So many things went unanswered, and Alfred was not one to wait for them. His eyes lingered on a certain blond with locks that scratched his shoulders.

_"At least tell me who..?"_

"Francis!" Alfred stood, momentarily forgetting he was in English class. "What in God's name did you do to him?!"

The teacher turned around, aghast at the outburst. She put her hands of her hips, yelling back at equal volume: "Mr. Jones! Please do not socialize in my classroom!"

Francis flinched. "Al, we can't talk during Miss Nack's class. That's disrespectful," he smiled at the teacher whom turned back around with a smile and kept writing down a paragraph on the whiteboard.

Alfred begrudgingly sat back down heavily and clenched his fists.

Now, Alfred was not extremely close to Arthur, so perhaps he had no room to talk. That being said, Arthur was so shy when he last saw him. Not talking shy… More like he was almost scared of people. Of him—though not him in particular. He was always pulling his limbs together and covering his frail frame. Somewhat protectively, somewhat frightfully. Did Francis hit the kid so much he didn't want to show his body?

Anger flared through Alfred's nervous system.

How could they lay a hand on such an innocent soul? Knuckles that weighed down impossibly more when tarnished with the sickly crimson color of his blood. When their eyes were tainted with the sickly sight of his weak eyes, struggling only to register the beams of light. The shapes and figures. That tried to see the person killing their soul with a jagged knife. How could they lay a hand on such an innocent soul?  
_"Sit!"_

No, wait—

_"If you _want_ it!"_

—He really didn't mean that!

God, why was he so _stupid_?

Alfred shamefully put his head in his hands. He had a feeling that day would haunt him until his last.

Arthur never went home—this was another thing he noticed.

However his train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt with the sound of a bell and eager children rushing towards a door.

That and Francis near the front of the crowd, glancing nervously over his shoulder at Alfred before he dashed for the hallway.

* * *

"Francis!" Alfred yelled through the swarms of students.

This only encouraged Francis to run faster.

Alfred sliced the crowd in two and pushed past everyone harshly, ignoring the shouts of "Hey!" and "Watch it!"

His body flew through the children like a brick—hardly at all, heavily, and destructively.

He found Francis hiding behind a snack machine and grabbed his shoulder, slamming him against the wall to face him. He held his wrists on both sides of his head and his eyes just _dared_ him to try to get loose.

"What," he paused to bring his face closer, "The hell did you do to him?"

"T-To who, _mon cher_?" Francis attempted to smile.

Francis gasped as Alfred kneed him in the stomach.

"You know damn well who I'm talking about," Alfred seethed.

"I don't have to tell you," Francis's joking tone was demolished. "Why do you care anyways?"

"You brag to Gilbert about what you do to him. Why not me?" Alfred ignored the last question.

"You're some new ki—" he was interrupted by a fist connecting with his lip.

Patience was thinning to a line.

"I got expelled from my last school for beating kids up. Don't make me do it again," he threatened. "Now, _tell me_."

They had quite a group surround them now. Some of the kids started to cheer "fight!" and others even videotaped the scene with cracked cellphone screens. Alfred glared at Francis and lowered his eyes to his now cut lip.

…Scratch that. There were two cuts. _Two_.

"Where'd you get that?" accusation was burning the edges of his curious tone.

"You just hit—"

"Not that! The _other_ one," his voice grew more agitated with each word.

Francis swallowed thickly.

"I didn't see that yesterday," Alfred continued. "Did… Arthur..?"

His eyes whispered the truth clear as day despite the "no," that sinfully dropped from his bloodied lip.

"You and I both know Arthur _never_ fights back—especially physically—so I'll ask you once more before I break that pretty face. What—"

"—Are you guys doing?" Gilbert cut in.

Francis looked gratefully at Gilbert and replied, "He wants to know what I did to Arthur yesterday."

"Well, why don't you tell him?" Gilbert looked into Francis's pleading eyes with knowing ones. "You're so shy," he teased.

Alfred's attention gravitated towards the albino.

"Dude, he tried to—"

"Gil, don't!"

"Don't be so shy, Francis. That's so unawesome. He told me he finally made a move on the kid. Like touched his ass and everything!" Gilbert gave a sick laugh.

"You _raped_ him?!" Alfred growled as his grip grew tighter.

"Nah, the kid ran before he got the change," Gilbert intervened again.

Francis tried to shrink under Alfred's hardening gaze. His eyes bore holes through the teen and his face was contorted into disgust.

"You know," his voice was contradictorily calm. "I lied when I said _unless_ you tell me, I'll beat you up. I'll do it either way.

The words desperately tried to reach the surface and hardly had time before Alfred's fist audibly smashed into Francis nose. He pushed Francis to the tile floor and kicked his stomach in.

_How—_

He kicked him again.

_—Could_

His knuckles would have been white.

_—He?_

"What's your problem?" Gilbert demanded in the mess of things, but his words went fell upon deaf ears.

Excited and fearful screams were heard from the crowd around them. Encouraging were some, shocked were others.

Francis's nose cracked when Alfred hit him again and Francis winced. He made no move to fight back; his eyes were shut. Two more blows to his shoulder and stomach were afflicted before the ring of children was broken and an administrator was revealed. He blew a loud whistle and many students covered their ears. Alfred glared into Francis's eyes once more before he was pulled from his body.

"What's with you, Jones?"

Alfred recognized the adult as the gym coach. Coincidentally, they weren't far from the gym. While Alfred stood, brushing the dirt from his blazer, Francis was attempting to stop the blood from leaving his nose.

"Beilschmidt, take that boy to the clinic," he stated simply and dragged Alfred behind him by his elbow.

Gilbert and Francis glanced at the back of Alfred's rumpled blue school blazer.

"_What the hell, man_?" Gilbert's gaze asked.

"_I know I deserved that_," Francis's gaze admitted.

Their eyes returned to their path and they walked on the cold tiles. The air seemed to swish audibly around them as the hallway cleared out. The children were removed one by one and disappeared behind wooden doors; doors that closed with a loud thud as they shut them out.

Alfred disappeared behind the corner with the teacher chained to his wrist. On his face, it was obvious how he felt and he felt nothing. His teeth clenched as were his fists and it was obvious how he felt indeed.

He didn't care the consequences. He felt no regret.

* * *

_Arthur scratched on the door again, adding away and adding away to the collection of marks of broken nails. Of bloodied streaks of crimson and dents. Of screams and yells in begging for release._

_ He fell back for the third day._

_ It was strange._

_ He would bang and scream to be let go, to be free. Then when he heard the frightening heavy footsteps and squeaking of the stairs he cowered in the corner, hugging his ripped sleeves closer to him. His arms that were tainted a grotesque scarlet and he painted with his own…_

_ He colored pictures with his favorite color and scribbled sketches with shaking fingers. His broken skin lay roughly on his muscles, almost as if it didn't fit. Like someone tried to fit the right puzzle pieces in the wrong places._

_ Why couldn't he have friends? He brought home Lucas and Martin and his father got angry with him. He chased the boys off and once they were gone, he locked him down here. He told them that he hated them and never wanted to see them again. _

_ Lucas and Martin cried and ran away. They were nine. What else would they do when their best friend abruptly hated them?_

_ He envied how they could play together so freely._

_ Arthur had learned in school about how some people may try to kidnap him and steal him away from his loving parents. That they'd hurt him a lot, and if he ever thought someone would do something like that to him, to tell their parents or a teacher and they'd help keep them away._

_ What if the person was their parent?_

_ What if the victim doesn't want their daddy taken away?_

_ It hurt, it did, of course it did, but Arthur still loved his father. He begged and cried each night that maybe he'd wake up the next day to his father telling him he loved him instead of he hated him. That the chilly summer breeze would get warmer and that the bruises would sink under his skin._

_ Arthur always was a dreamer._

* * *

Arthur woke up to a blinding sun.

What time was it? Almost three in the afternoon?

The boy sat up and sighed, it's not like anyone would notice his absence in school that day. In fact, why did he even bother attending?

_So that you don't draw unwanted attention. Too many absences will put your name down in the book, and if they find—_

Having nothing better to do, the boy stripped off his jacket, exposing his arms and he climbed his tree. His fingers grazed the bark gently and he grabbed the branches roughly. It was a bittersweet action, really. He made it to about the fifth branch that was evidently larger than the rest. It was thick and it curved in a chair-like position.

Arthur sat himself down on the branch as he laid back his head, gazing up to the sky.

He closed his eyes and began to sing.

_She's standing and then she's weeping for sins._

_Blind the child and deafen her ears._

_They ring the bell and claim her fears._

_Approach her slow and with weak limbs._

_You see her there; you see her sing._

_She's standing and then she's weeping for sins._

* * *

Alfred made it routine to venture into the vines and trees after school each day. The clouds swirled around him and pushed him forwards. He felt so different. Before he'd found the oak tree with Arthur, Alfred had no real meaning in life. No real drive. He always went through school and tried to blend in, do as his parents instructed, and repeat. Then he finds a feeble boy with red bracelets adorning his forearms and legs and suddenly everything changes. Something claws into his ribcage, nearly missing his heart. Somehow, it told him Arthur needed saving.

The grass was wet with dew even though it was late. This forest really was a mystical one. The wind was chilly and refreshing in contrast to the scorching sun. Alfred's hair was pushed back and whipped around in the breeze almost theatrically.

He neared the clearing and heard a faint voice dipping up and down in a melodic harmony. It was a smooth, melancholy voice.

_The leaves she sees and loves them each_

_More so than_

_The ones she eats._

_She's chained and buried in rusted locks;_

_She's stuck in her coffin._

_She's stuck in her life._

_She stands and then starts weeping for sins._

Alfred felt his blood still and he nearly melted as he saw Arthur lying on the tree branch. His hair was messily framing his scarred face where the makeup had begun to fall off. One arm was hanging from the branch and the other fell across his stomach. The tune of the song was simple and repetitive. After a few verses, he saw the pattern and picked it up. He softly hummed a harmony along to the last chorus as he lay on the gentle blades of grass.

_She's standing and then she's weeping for sins._

_Blind the child and deafen her ears._

_They ring the bell and claim her fears._

_Approach her slow and with weak limbs._

_You see her there; you see her sing._

_She's standing and then she's weeping for sins._

The corners of Arthur's pale pink lips were tugged upwards in the slightest as he heard the harmony. Part of him told him he should be panicked someone's here, and another part was soothed.

"How did you find me? Why did you find me?" Arthur asked softly.

Alfred looked up the child and answered with equal volume, "I just sort of… felt you I think. And you weren't at school today."

Alfred thought his answer sounded lame, however he stuck with it. It was the truth after all.

"I woke up late," Arthur answered simply. "I didn't think it mattered if I went to school or not in entirety."

A sheet of silence pooled around their ankles.

"So… How are you?" Alfred tried to ask.

Arthur laughed.

Alfred raised a brow at the abrupt action.

"What's funny?" he asked.

"That question," Arthur's tone was still amused. "You're not _really_ asking how I'm feeling. It's a script. You ask how I am, I say 'fine' and ask you the same, and you answer accordingly. It's obligatory. A script. Then you just move on with your day."

Alfred was taken aback by the answer. "Well… I do want to know."

"No you don't," Arthur spoke in the same tone.

"I do," Alfred insisted.

Arthur turned to face him this time. "Think back. Has anyone ever told you they felt anything other than 'fine' or 'good' when you've asked them?"

Alfred scratched the top of his head. "They… have, I think."

"I feel terrible," Arthur spoke abruptly, taking in Alfred's shocked eyes with a smile. "See, you're surprised I didn't say 'I'm fine. How are you?' "

Alfred's shoulders drooped as he realized the truth behind Arthur's claims.

"Why do you feel terrible then?" Alfred asked.

"Oh, I don't. I was just making a point," Arthur smirked weakly at the man. For some reason, he didn't feel so afraid of him.

"Okay, fair enough. How are you _truly_ feeling today, Arthur?" Alfred pressed.

Arthur thought for a moment.

"…Hollow," he replied at last.

"Hollow?" Alfred repeated. "What do you mean?"

Arthur paused as his face fell and he stayed quiet. The wind whispered in his ears and he felt his eyes close again. He didn't trust him enough to answer, and didn't trust himself enough to stay quiet while awake.

"Arthur?" Alfred called to deaf ears.

Arthur seemed to have fallen asleep on the branch.

Quietly, Alfred climbed up to Arthur and picked up his frail figure. He was so light. What had this boy been eating of late?

Now, the last part was a bit tricky, but Alfred managed to get himself with the boy down to ground level.

Alfred looked down at the hard dirt and grass, otherwise known as Arthur's bed. He bit his lip in self-conflict before he took a step back and turned around with Arthur's sleeping figure resting in his arms. He stepped into the bushes and trees and walked back towards to main road. The sun was dimly lighting the pavement as he walked slowly, admiring Arthur's feeble-looking face. His lips twitched upwards.

By the time he was home, his mother called that dinner was on the counter and he ran up to his room. He put Arthur in his bed and pulled the covers over him, pushing his bangs out of his face. His eyes lingered over him a little longer before he went to get an extra pillow and blanket.

Alfred slept on the floor that night.

* * *

Arthur woke to the warmth of blankets and the comfort of… what was this soft thing he was on?

His eyes opened and he found himself under a roof. His heart rate sped up dramatically and he sat up, his head spinning.

_Walls, roof, blanket, where am I? _

"Arthur, you awake?" came a groggy voice beside him, yet the voice was contorted and twisted… almost sounding like…

"_**Artie**_?"

Arthur's breathing quickened, his surroundings darkening and flashing back and forth from reality and memory. The floor looked dirtier and barren. The walls felt colder and damp. The air felt thick and heavy with a metallic scent.

"Dude, you okay?" a foreign voice came forward and Arthur stumbled backwards.

Arthur's eyes were wide and dilated and cloudy.

Glazed over.

His surroundings were now changed completely, taking the form of his old bedroom and faces were distorted as were voices. He saw knives scattered and blood stained his sheets and his hands.

He screamed.

_How did I get back here? How? I was—by my tree! I wasn't…_

"Arthur!" Alfred shouted at the boy.

Said teen fell backwards and curled into a ball. His fingers clenched and unclenched repeatedly and his body twitched uncontrollably. His voice was scratchy and the occasional shriek surfaced from his neglected throat.

"What's going on up here, Alfred?" his mom burst through the bedroom door. "And who's—what's wrong with him?"

"Mom! I don't—I don't know! I just… I brought him home yesterday and he woke up and now!" he left his exclamation at that, not bothering to finish it.

"Al, honey, try to calm him down, I'm getting a phone."

Alfred nodded rashly and climbed up to the bed, hovering over the frightened boy. He laid a hand on his shoulder and Arthur's body arched, his eyes widening impossibly more as he screamed louder.

Alfred withdrew his hand quickly as fear racked over his body. His thoughts raced each other yet they could not find the finish line.

"An ambulance is coming," his mom reemerged in the doorframe.

"I-I—He—freaked out when I t-touched him," Alfred said with sadness, panic, and fear all dancing on his tongue.

"It's okay, it's okay," his mom pet his hair softly. "Help's coming."

* * *

They watched helplessly at the seizer-inflicted boy.

Alfred peered over the shoulders of the paramedics to see Arthur on a gurney with his arms and legs strapped down to keep them from flailing. By now the boy's eyes were shut tightly and his body was tense, mumbling incoherent phrases.

Alfred felt guilty. If only he hadn't taken him home. But still, no good deed goes unpunished.

He'd told the workers by the ambulance everything he knew about the boy such as his name and school and other details, and they wrote them down and went to the back to conclude the data. After a matter of minutes, the main worker's eyebrows furrowed together and he called others nearer to him, pointing out details and whispering questions.

Comprehension fell over the paramedic's features as he started to restate things as clarification. Alfred strained his ears to hear the crucial conversation, only catching certain words.

"_Yes_," they said.

"_Far_," they said.

"_Finally_," they said.

"_So_ _long_," they said.

"_Found_," they said.

* * *

Two empty chairs were audibly ringing. Arthur and Alfred hadn't been to class the following day. The air was thick with anticipation of the teens and still they had yet to make an appearance. And though the crowd cheered and clapped, yelling for them to come, the act had been cancelled that day, and there were no refunds. The act consisted of only two boys.

* * *

**_Guess who started school this week? I DID! Therefore, my updating rate will be a lot slower. I normally write at night and since I can't anymore due to having to wake up early, I have to write when I feel inspired (which barely happens during the day, so please don't be mad at me if my writing quality goes down ;-; I'm tryinggg) Alsooooo I wrote the little song mentioned this chapter YAY FOR CRAPPY POETRY SKILLZ~_**

**_So yup Francis got what he deserved via Alfred :p Hope you liked this chapter! Don't forget to review!_**


	6. Pitiful Conversation

_"And the worst part is_

_Before it gets_

_Any better w__e're_

_Headed for a cliff._

_And in the free-fall I_

_I realize_

_I'm better off_

_When I hit the bottom."_

_-Turn it Off Paramore_

_ Images. Colors. Lines. Shades. Faces._

Pictures flashed through his line of sight.

"Him?"

Seven pairs of eyes examine the picture, and then the boy.

A head shook.

"Him?"

"This one?"

"This one's him."

"No, this one."

"Him?"

The cycle continued infinitely.

* * *

_The door opened violently. Heavy footsteps. Heavy footsteps._

_ But these were different._

_ Arthur found himself pushed into the corner of the room, fearing the other man nearing closer, nearing closer to him._

_ And yet, the door slammed shut as quickly as it opened._

_ Daddy never shut the door. Not unless he left._

_ Heavy breathing, pants, and gasps broke the air._

_ Arthur was frozen in place and frightened out of his mind at the intruder, though he sounded just as scared as Arthur himself was. Suddenly, the noises stopped—or at least lessened._

_ "I-Is so-omeone there?" came the raspy voice._

_ Arthur flinched._

_ "Me," he said quietly._

_ Silence clawed at his ears with sharp talons. Drawing blood._

_ "W-Who are you?" the voice asked next._

_ "A-Artie," Arthur replied._

_ There was a pause._

_ "I'm not alone? Dad h-has others?"_

_ Arthur didn't know how to reply._

_ The atmosphere became colder and the stranger moved. His feet dragged heavily forward with a thick shuffling sound. The sound was deafeningly loud. The lighting in the room was very dim; shadows accented each shape._

_ "I-I'm Allistor," his voice shook in an unmentionable frequency._

_ Arthur gazed up at the newcomer. The light hardly brushed over his features, but he could tell he was about five years older than him. His face and arms bared scars similar to his own—more even. Some of them leaked with his favorite color._

_ His hair was a shade of blonde._

_ "So I guess we're… Brothers..?" Allistor spoke with uncertainty biting the edges of his voice._

_ Arthur nodded stiffly._

_ "There were other doors," Allistor informed. "I thought they were e-empty… But I… You're… What if there's more? What if we have m-more brothers?"_

_ Arthur swallowed thickly._

_ "What if we have a-a sister?" Allistor added._

_ Arthur processed the words slowly, but did not make a sound._

* * *

"This is ridiculous. Arthur goes to my school. He isn't an orphan from some place two states away!" Alfred tried to defend Arthur's silent voice.

Arthur was merely staring blankly at the tiles with a solemn expression. More pictures flashed by and they tried to match up the photographs to Arthur's face. The hospital reeked of cough medicine and over-used air freshener.

"This one looks similar," a worker said and held the photograph next to the real-thing.

"No, look, his facial structure is completely different. His eyes are farther apart than that!"

"Try this one."

* * *

_Doors slammed. Screams were heard._

_ "H-He sees I-I le-eft," Allistor's voice was choppy, disconnected with nothing but pure fear crawling off his tongue._

_ His whole body shook involuntarily._

_**"Allistor!"**_

_ His prediction proved accurate._

_ Heavy footsteps. Heavy footsteps._

_ Heavy footsteps towards other doors._

_ Open. Scream. Shut._

_ Open. Yell. Close._

_ Open. Shriek. Slam._

_ Open._

* * *

A picture flashed up and lingered longer.

"This one really looks like him.." someone mumbled and scrutinized Arthur's face.

Arthur's eyes drifted towards the photograph lazily before locking with it in full attention.

"He recognizes it," a worker stated.

"His eyes look a little different…"

"The facial structure is mostly the same, though."

"Look at his hair, it's kind of darker."

Arthur didn't seem to hear their conversations and fell out of his seat a safe five feet away from the interrogators. He sank to his knees, crawling forward pitifully under their examining eyes and questioning glances. The hospital workers seemed to be put on guard as they neared him and even more so when he reached up a scrawny arm.

He grabbed the picture without a word and whimpered silently as he held it to his chest.

"A-Allistor," he whispered to himself and the corner of the paper was dampened by a tear.

* * *

_Arthur watched helplessly as his brother was forced to his knees as his father kicked him._

_ "Allistor, why did you leave your room again?" he spoke. Did he not notice Arthur shaking in the corner?_

_ Allistor didn't answer._

_ Daddy brought up his fist and beat down on his head with a satisfactory crack and Allistor screamed and tried to clutch his skull in pain._

_ "Let's get that brain of yours to work. Answer me," he demanded and bashed his skull in again._

_ The crunch was sickening._

_ But why had Allistor stopped moving?_

_ "Or are you that broken?" his father asked._

_ Allistor body fell limp and for the longest time, no one moved._

_ Two fingers were pressed into the skin of his neck and withdrew. His father got up and left without another word. He really hadn't noticed Arthur._

_ Allistor's dirty-blonde hair was becoming darker as liquid flowed over it and tainted it a deep scarlet. In all honesty, he looked like he could be a natural red-head._

_ "A-Allistor?" Arthur asked timidly._

_ Allistor didn't answer._

_ Arthur touched his shoulder._

_ Allistor didn't answer._

_ Arthur pushed him over on his back._

_ Allistor didn't answer._

_ Arthur pried an eyelid open._

_ Allistor didn't answer._

* * *

"Did he just say 'Allistor'?" someone whispered.

"Who's that?" the workers started to have a discussion on what Arthur just said.

Alfred, however, just looked at him. He'd never realized just how much he didn't know him until he did something like this. Every day, he felt he _might_ be getting a little closer to him, only to be shoved back farther.

"Arthur..?" Alfred asked cautiously, receiving no reaction from the boy.

Alfred slowly slipped out of his chair, kneeling by Arthur. He tried to take a peek at the photograph and it really did look like him. Maybe if he had darker hair, his nose was a little bigger, and his eyes were a slightly different shade, it'd be a perfect match.

"Arthur who's this?" Alfred asked quietly.

Arthur responded after two minutes, "Allistor," he stated again.

"Who's Allistor?" Alfred looked at the picture. He looked around the age of fourteen.

Arthur choked on a sob.

"My brother," he squeaked.

Alfred's eyes widened. _Brother? Why hadn't I… I really know nothing about him._

"Your brother went missing, too," a worker joined in. "You see, he was adopted when he was two years old, and then suddenly disappeared. We require to have pictures sent every three years the child is in their care for legal reasons, but they just stopped sending them. He told us he ran away over the phone. Actually, that's when your pictures stopped coming, too. Although we were able to find you."

Arthur's head shook violently and he covered his face with the photograph.

"No, he lied," he whispered, and only Alfred managed to catch it.

"Lied..?" he asked slowly. This whole thing was getting plain weird.

"Allistor didn't run. He tried though, he told me he tried. That's how we met. He was trying to run," Arthur's voice sounded so young as if he was reliving the experience at the moment.

"Then, why'd the pictures stop?" someone bluntly asked.

"Allistor stopped moving," he whispered.

"He got paralyzed?" another prodded.

And for once Arthur actually looked angry.

"No! He—" anger was replaced with grief.

Alfred was taken aback by his outburst while Arthur only wished everyone would leave him alone to his tree.

"What happened to him?" they dissected him like a frog.

"Don't make me say it…" Arthur cried into the paper.

Alfred had never seen Arthur display so much emotion before. He was always so stone-faced around him and monotone. He didn't know him hardly well enough to even call him his friend. Were they even friends? Was he still a stranger to this man?

"Arthur… What… Happened to him?" Alfred asked timidly, wanting to know more about him.

"Daddy…"

_"It really hurt daddy."_

_ "I know you loved me…"_

_"I miss you, daddy."_

_ "…Right, daddy?"_

_Who the heck is Arthur's "daddy"?! _Alfred fought the urge to yell.

Arthur never went past the word.

"You can tell me," Alfred whispered and leaned closer to him so he could whisper back.

The world felt like it stopped turning for a moment and Alfred was hoping oh so wistfully he'd actually tell him. That perhaps he did trust him enough.

Arthur leaned forward in the slightest and said in the quietest voice he could muster, which was hardly a sound because of his neglected voice. And yet, Alfred was able to hear the three words, and perhaps he wished he hadn't.

"Daddy killed him."

* * *

Francis was lying down in the nurse's office with a bandaged nose and a fuming Gilbert next to him.

"What was his _problem_?" Gilbert seethed. "Why'd he do something like that to you? I thought we were friends or something!"

Francis had been listening to Gilbert rant on Alfred for nearly thirty minutes. The clinic of their school wasn't the most comfortable. The cot was basically just a cardboard rectangle painted a gross shade of blue-green and it always smelled like artificial cherries. He would have wrinkled his nose in disgust upon entering, but it was pretty bothersome to do such a task as of now.

"Francis? Are you even listening? Did he _literally_ punch your brains out?"

"Gilbert, I'm fine. Honestly, I probably deserved it."

Gilbert looked at him. "What do you mean? He did something so unawesome to someone so awesome!"

"Is it really awesome, Gilbert? We've been giving kids bloody noses and scars and bruises to bring home as an early Christmas present. I agree I crossed the line with… what I did to Arthur," Francis pointed out without really looking at anyone or anything in particular.

And for once, Gilbert was quiet.

* * *

Alfred swallowed thickly. Part of him told him he'd misheard the boy, and another part—a larger part—insisted the words were spoken in truth. Even if he had heard correctly, how exactly does he respond to that?

* * *

_ Awesome. _

_Extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear._

That's what his dictionary told him, but what exactly was it to him? It mentioned the word _fear_, but was that really better than _impressive_ or _daunting_? _Inspiring great admiration_?

What was awesome to Gilbert? Because he honestly didn't know anymore.

* * *

_His father came back into the room looking more… Sadistic? Anger? Or was there sadness burning his fingertips?_

_ He had his briefcase._

_ "Artie," he normally sang, but this time, it was more of a statement._

_ Arthur wanted to crawl towards him and give him a… A.. Hug was it? He wanted to crawl towards him and give him a hug. But he didn't. He couldn't._

_ "Arthur," it was the first time he'd heard his actual name spoken from his father's chapped lips._

_ His son looked up._

_ The briefcase opened more slowly than it used to._

_ There were many toys to be played with inside. Various shapes and different types, and yet, his father just took out a simple blade. It could even be a kitchen knife. Perhaps if he was a nicer father, he would look up and smile, saying "Let's go out and cook some burgers."_

_ His steps were slower. Heavier as they neared._

_ And somehow, after all his years, Arthur wasn't feeling too scared. Not for himself at least._

_ The knife surreally glistened in the shadows as he lifted it hardly higher than his head and Arthur readied himself for the blow. Why did Arthur feel so at ease though? He normally felt fear eating his insides out for dinner, lunch, and breakfast._

_ He hated the sound. He could hear it and he didn't like it. He didn't like it. He didn't like it. He didn't like it. He didn't like it. He didn't like it._

_ The slice._

_ He hated the sound._

_ He hated it, and someday, it may be his undoing._

_ Or perhaps it will sew him together?_

_ Who knows?_

_ Scarlet was becoming revolting to the boy. Scarlet painting his father's arms and his shoulders. And for once, the knife sunk into unfamiliar flesh._

_ "D-Daddy, you're bleeding," Arthur said. "Dad, why are you—Dad you're—" why couldn't he speak?_

_ "I know, Arthur," he cried in a voice that was so distraught it would have sunk to the middle of the Earth._

_ And Arthur swore it did._

_ "T-Tell me what to do! Call 911? What do I say? Where's t-the bandaids? Daddy? Daddy?" his voice sped up in panic._

_ "I can't be saved, Arthur, I can't. I've died long ago, my body is only catching up to my mind now."_

_ "Dad! You can't die!" he screamed, "I forgive you! I always have! J-Just don't leave me! I can't grow up alone!"_

_ "Arthur, you're better off without me! I've nearly killed you! How can you love me after what I've done? You claim you forgive me, and that makes me… Less sad. I can't forgive myself though."_

_ Arthur lunged forward and gave his dad a hug. A hug he'd always yearned for. It felt so bittersweet. He loved it and hated it at the same time._

_ He held his hands against the deep cuts in his arms, crimson flowing over between his fingers._

_ "I-I CAN'T DO IT! THERE'S TOO MUCH BLOOD!" he screamed. "I'M SORRY! I CAN'T! I WANT TO BUT I CAN'T!"_

_He tried with all his might to press harder onto the gashes, but they were so deep his fingers could have slipped inside if he tried._

_ "I know you can't," his father said. "I suppose this is in return for Allistor."_

_ "Y-You can't repay me by taking something else away!" Arthur sobbed and held onto his father tighter._

_ Pitifully, this was the longest conversation they'd had in their lives._

_ Pitifully, this was the last conversation they'd had in their lives._

* * *

**_Sorry this chapter was shorter than usual, but I feel like a lot happened. How do you feel about Arthur's Father's death? New (really short) Allistor character? (Scotland) I'm not so sure about how this story is going, but I'm still trying. *Staying up until midnight on a school night to write this* Hehehe... I guess there's not much to say in this author's note so baiii~ See you probably next weekend. Remember to review~_**


	7. Drinking

"_Heart aches and mistakes_

_How many hits can a good girl take and I'm_

_Tired of hurting_

_Slowly learning"_

_-Love life, Paramore_

There were so many things buzzing around Alfred's head he could have screamed. This was too much information with too little explanation, and he just snapped. Gripping Arthur's wrist with a strong arm, he pulled him away. Arthur flinched under his touch as he was pulled to his feet.

"Where are you kids going?" workers demanded and some even attempted to stop them.

"Bathroom," Alfred yelled over his shoulder with annoyance hanging from his words from a thread.

Eyes followed them cautiously as they disappeared into the men's bathroom, perhaps expecting them to make a break for the door. The bathroom was the kind with one stall instead of multiple, so they had a few strange looks as the door clicked shut and locked.

"Okay someone needs to _spill_ or I might just lose it. What the heck is going on?!" Alfred nearly screamed, but made his voice come out in a hushed whisper.

Arthur was silent.

_Yelling. Mad. Hit. Hurt._ He cowered in the corner. _Everyone's the same. They're all mad. They all hurt._

Alfred's blue eyes fell onto the shrinking figure pressed against the wall.

_He's… Scared of me_. He realized with a spoonful of sadness.

"I don't mean to yell," he apologized quietly as he leaned against the opposite wall. "I'm just so confused and _tired_ of being confused."

Arthur's green eyes lifted at the words in the slightest. _Not… Angry..?_ And he found himself looking into Alfred's. With blue clashing with green, it was a moment of peace. A moment Arthur wistfully hoped that he may see again.

"Can you tell me..?" Alfred asked without his pleading voice. It was more serious, as if he didn't want to pressure him into anything, and yet he was desperate for an answer.

"I don't know where to start," Arthur whispered as he sat down on the floor of the bathroom.

Alfred followed his lead, and moved to sit next to him.

"So… Your dad, he… killed your brother?" he asked almost awkwardly.

Arthur nodded numbly.

"He… hurt you, too, didn't he?" Alfred accused.

"He didn't mean to… He couldn't have meant to…" Arthur said in a hushed voice

"And he hasn't been caught? This guy is insane!" the older boy exclaimed.

"He's dead," the abrupt words halted Alfred.

"Dead..? How did he..."

Arthur screamed silence.

Alfred's curious hand strayed to Arthur's shoulder, pulling lightly at the fabric covering the flesh. His eyes asked for permission to take off the jacket, but Arthur shook his head as his shoulders tensed up. With ever-so-present caution, Alfred's fingertips found Arthur's hand and he held onto it lightly.

"I know you don't really trust me… But believe me when I say I want to help you, and if you need someone to talk to, you can come to me."

And one by one, the words were plugged into his brain and he tried to decipher them. Phrases like _"help you_" and the implied friendship being the hardest to make sense of. Such foreign, unfamiliar words. It seemed just by meeting this boy he'd seen so much more; learned so much more. And he yearned for more understanding; for more knowledge.

"There are some things better left unsaid," he said quietly as he stared blankly at nothing.

"Nothing's better left wordless," Alfred argued, "If you don't speak your mind, all that happens to you is either nothing or things get worse. If you can't trust me enough to tell me, I'll try my best to earn such things, but you can't say that it's better that I don't know. You're a shaken bottle of soda, and soon enough you'll burst unless you open it up and let some fizz out."

Arthur took in his words, and yet he couldn't bring himself to respond. He merely laid his head on his shoulder, finally having the comfort of another human. He'd realized how much he'd missed out on in the past years; how healing the beating heart of another's next to your own could be.

A loud knock resounded on outside the bathroom door that made Arthur jump in fear, and Alfred out of surprise.

"You two better not be doing naughty things in there," someone shouted through the wood. "You've been in there rather long _together_."

Arthur seemed to blush fiercely while Alfred merely laughed and unlocked the door with a sheepish grin.

"Sorry, just talking," he explained and pulled the door open wider and stepped out, motioning for Arthur to follow him.

Arthur stood shakily and ducked his head under the eyes of other, following Alfred out. They made it back to the group they were originally in and Alfred observed their annoyed faces with an amused grin.

"We're back!" he exclaimed and made a gesture in Arthur's direction.

"Great. Now if you don't _mind_ we'll need to get back to the whole reason we're _here_," Came the agitated response. Sounds like someone skipped out on their coffee that morning…

"Well the issue of the business is this:" one worker started as he glanced over his papers, "Arthur had been missing from the Landbridge Orphanage for nearly three years, so he'll have to move back and put under more watchful eye until the year is up and he's a legal adult."

"You mean he has to _leave_? As in he won't be at Hetalia High anymore?" Alfred clarified. _And right when I'd broke his shell, too!_

"Yes, that's right. You'll have the rest of the day to say goodbye and then he'll need to bring his stuff and we'll take him across the state to the orphanage, seeing as there isn't a closer one in this area."

Alfred looked over at Arthur's guilty expression and bit his lip. Obviously, Arthur confirmed their claims of him somehow escaping his past living environment—which now that he thought about it, explained why he lived under a tree instead of a home.

"But if he was adopted by someone in this area, he could stay and still go to our school?" Alfred asked with a glint in his eye.

The workers exchanged looks before they responded with a slow, "I suppose so…"

"Mom!" Alfred erupted to his mother sitting next to him.

"Alfred, I'm right here! Don't shout!" she scolded and Alfred sunk in his chair before perking back up.

"We should adopt Arthur!" he clung to her arm.

Arthur as well as the rest of the party turned to stare at his ludicrous suggestion. Ludicrous and unexpected.

"I-I can't just take on another child, Alfred!" she said though throwing an apologetic glance near Arthur's direction.

"It's just until—" he turned to Arthur, "When's your birthday?"

"A-April..?" Arthur responded timidly with more of a questioning tone.

"It's only six months!" Alfred shouted much to the distaste of the guests passing by.

"Alfred this is more than just signing a few papers, I'll be responsible for his _life_," his mother argued.

"And you're doing a pretty good job with mine, what's one more?" he asked.

"You speak so low of the value of life," she narrowed her eyes.

"That's a yes?" he concluded expectantly.

His mother sighed.

* * *

_"You're almost there," a voice encouraged._

_ There were a few more shouts resounding in the hospital room before all ended abruptly, replaced with the sound of whines and cries. A feeble baby was taken from the now exhausted woman and it was wrapped in cloth._

_ "Would you like to see your new son?" a doctor asked the woman whom nodded tiredly and yet lovingly._

_ The baby was set gently into the arms of the mother who looked at carefully. It had the lightest fuzz of hair sprouted from its head already and it was damp from the fluids of her body, because she'd created him. She felt herself smile._

_ "Do you have a name?" the doctor asked softly, just under the cries of the newborn._

_ But then the heart monitor went crazy._

_ "What's going on? Someone, get me her vitals!"_

_ The room erupted into chaos and the atmosphere was burning hot as the mother's body arched, her green eyes were wide and glazed over. Papers flew through the air and there were demands yelled across the hospital. More nurses came in, helping other workers and some trying to calm down the mother._

_ "Her heart rate is too high!" _

_ More shouts were made and people readied medicines and other things, only to be rejected by the main doctor. _

_ "Arthur," the woman whispered. "His name is Arthur."_

_ "She's responding," a nurse repeated. "She's naming the boy Arthur."_

_ "Her heart is going to burst at this point! Calm her down! Give her something!"_

_ Things were thrown into syringes and one was pushed into her forearm. As it was injected, her body relaxed and fell limp. The bustling around in the room slowed to a stop and their eyes fell onto her figure, relieved she had calmed down._

_ But then panic arose once more when the heart monitor spiked again. Rapid beeping sounded and the nurses ran around the room again, throwing papers and pressing buttons at a speeding pace. Clicking and beeping was becoming deafening until an elongated tone rang out._

_ The rustling in the room died down and a blanket of silence wrapped around them twice, save for the cries of an infant and the B flat tone ringing eternally._

* * *

"Here."

The ballpoint pen scribbled.

"And here."

More lines of navy blue ink.

"I can't believe I'm doing this…" Alfred's mom sighed as signed her name again.

"Once more here, then you're done."

The pen moved swiftly.

The packet of papers closed audibly, headed with _**Adoption Papers**_.

"We'll go over the paperwork, but until then he'll remain where he is. We'll contact you anytime between one month and three for the final details."

And it was as simple as that. A few signatures and Arthur no longer lived no where. He had a home. A strange feeling welled up inside his body, and the frail boy couldn't place it for the life of him. He could hardly believe what was happening, though at the same time, he didn't want to leave his tree. Oscar had always been there… and now he's just going to leave? What was loyalty?

And so with the matter settled, the trio exited with an excited Alfred, a contemplating mother, and an apathetic Arthur.

Arthur tried to shrink or possibly fall through the grains of dirt and blades of grass. He felt like such a burden to be taken under the care of another, and he simply wished to disappear. Everything would be much simpler if that were the case.

The walls of the house were as welcoming as the floorboards; a shade of mint green and auburn wooden panels under his feet. He was shown the room that was now titled as his.

"Matthew moved out for college," said the woman, "so this will be your new room."

Such a warm smile she stretched and yet something felt odd. The idea was preposterous that he would be adopted again, and yet, here he was, standing with two feet planted with metal roots in the violet rug dotted in the center of the room—or more accurately—his room. It was just so surreal.

And although it was obvious the new woman he was encouraged to call "mother" tried her best to make him feel comfortable, but Oscar was the only one that could ever hope to accomplish such a feat.

The roof and the doors reminded him of the same ones that confined him all but under a decade ago. He closed his eyes in remembrance of screams; the calloused hands he knew too well. And he wished to feel relief as he clutched the new blankets over him—he yearned in false hope to be thankful—but the nightmares that fled two years prior had crept back under the thin sheet of his subconscious bearing chains and they carried the locks. They cut open his skull and crawled back in.

And so Arthur was back to nightmares and screams.

* * *

The time was hard to place.

If I were to guess, I'd say it was about… three months later?

After about three months, Arthur had started to speak more. He would hardly ever initiate conversation, but he would always respond above a whisper. And after a while, Arthur became comfortable around his new family. He still had yet to call his legal mother "mom" instead of "Mrs. Jones," but she found he probably would never get the hang of it.

And slowly, they started to claw at the thick shell around him. The layers were shed messily on the floor of their new home and Arthur no longer felt on edge in his bed or sitting at the dinner table. Alfred and his mother also found how frail and thin he was, his only meals being the lunch at school; they encouraged him to eat a lot more, though with his small stomach, he couldn't fit much in it.

Alfred found a new personality under the fears and barriers of protection. After spending a lot of time with him, he found that Arthur was actually quite hotheaded, stubborn, and that he _hated_ nicknames. He was also incredibly smart. "He's just a walking, talking encyclopedia!" as Alfred had put it one day.

The pair walked to school regularly now, their home being less than a mile away. The yearning for the forest and Oscar had died down after a week of living with the Jones. Alfred hadn't felt it since the day he brought Arthur back to his house. And yet the trees and branches moved in mysterious ways, almost as if waving to acknowledge their presence.

The Bad Touch trio hadn't made a move since Alfred had anchored himself as Arthur's personal bodyguard, much to Arthur's embarrassment and yet relief at the same time. Though, Alfred would always throw a daggerous glare in the direction of the three when he caught them looking at him—Francis more so than the others.

And later, the reason behind the stares was revealed.

"Let me get this straight, you three, the biggest bullies _ever_ to Arthur, want to take him out _drinking_?" Alfred's gaze glared a hole through Francis's head.

"Right," Francis nodded, though adding quieter, "Though you make it seem like it's such a bad thing."

"He's not even legal to drink yet!" Alfred yelled, flailing his arms like a protective parent, and Arthur only blushed more.

"Pipe down, Alfred," Gilbert shushed. "None of us are legal to drink yet, that's what fake IDs are for."

Alfred stood his ground and shook his head again. "You'll get caught," he claimed.

"None of us have got caught yet~" Antonio sang.

" 'Yet'," Alfred quoted back.

"Oh come on," Francis groaned, "If it's that bad, we can just hang out at one our houses and drink from our parents' stuff. You can even tag along if you're so _worried_ for him. Come on, compensation for being such jerks. So, daddy?" he added sarcastically.

Alfred rolled his eyes at the end of it and Arthur was just looking thoughtful. Arthur wanted to speak up and say it'd be fun or something. He had never drank before, though the idea was familiar. However, in the presence of others than Alfred and his mother, he learned to hold his tongue. Nothing good seemed to come from when he would speak.

Alfred glanced down a couple inches at Arthur's face and saw his green eyes looking back up at him innocently; curiously.

"Alright _fine_, but only if Arthur wants to," he ruffled his hair.

Arthur gave a rare smile, but it quickly faded. "I think that'd be fun," he said quietly.

And so that's how they were all found at Antonio's house (Alfred had decided he was the less destructive of the three) all completely drunk with the exclusion of Alfred, whom claimed he should drive Arthur home, and Antonio whom had to clean up the mess when they all left.

For the most part, Alfred and Antonio would talk to each other the most while the other three would stumble around and mumbling incoherent phrases. And much to Alfred's surprise, Arthur was the complete opposite of a shy, innocent boy when he was drunk. It was like being in the room with a stranger.

Arthur was talking at volumes Alfred would have considered a yell, and he would get much much closer to people than he normally would have.

"Aaaaalfreeeeeddd~" Arthur sang, drawing out the vowels as he jumped into his lap.

"Y-Yes?" Alfred felt strangely weird.

"I just wanted," Arthur slurred, swallowing before he continued, "to say your name~"

"Okay then…" Alfred said awkwardly.

The smaller man pushed his hands all over Alfred's face, and Alfred tried to no avail to lean backwards. Sadly, he was against a wall.

"I like your face," Arthur said, "it's so pretty."

Antonio just watched amusedly from the other side of the room, stifling laughter while Francis and Gilbert were… I'm not even sure what they were doing, trying to wrestle or something?

"Thanks..?" Alfred mumbled against his palm as Arthur leaned forward quickly, with his nose touching his.

Alfred nearly stopped breathing and froze at their proximity, and for the longest while, Arthur merely looked into Alfred's beautiful blue eyes. Alfred had noticed before Arthur had green eyes, but right now, they just looked… so miraculous. If you asked Alfred, he'd say they put stars to shame.

And before he could stop himself, or realize what he was doing, Alfred leaned forward and closed the distance between them. And to his surprise, Arthur responded to the kiss, almost becoming dominant as he pressed him back further against the wall. Alfred's hands anchored in at Arthur's shoulders while Arthur's own entangled themselves in golden locks.

Other than the sound of Francis and Gilbert cracking lame jokes and laughing like they were the best, the sound of their little make-out session was deafening. Antonio was shocked to say the least, and yet he was still very amused with the entire thing and was chuckling to himself as he watched, half wanting to pull out his cellphone to video tape it. Let's just say that half won out.

All too soon, Arthur let up his hold on Alfred, and smiled crookedly and started giggling. Alfred's clothes were slightly rumpled, his lips swollen and his hair a mess while Arthur's appearance mirrored his.

"You're like _such_ a great kisser," Arthur slurred and giggled some more.

Alfred was breathing harshly, astonished as he tried to grasp what just happened. His fingers reached up to brush over his lips where he still felt the ghost of another's working against them. And he couldn't stop his heart from rushing and the warmth that engulfed his body like a candle flame.

He could tell he'd started to fall in love with him.

* * *

**_Hehehe... I think I'm going in the romance direction, so the genre has changed once againnnn Romance and Hurt/comfort. What do you think? I'm not sure how great my romance writing is, so please forgive me ;-;_**

**_Also, YES DAGGEROUS IS A WORD ...To me ;-; I couldn't think of a better word, and I added the suffix "ous" making "Dagger" an adjective, so daggerous means an adjective, having dagger-like qualities._**

**_Again, I hope you liked this. I'm going to try updating every weekend now that I have school. *puts on tattered clothes and holds out a tin can* Spare reviews?_**


	8. His Music

"_I used to live alone before I knew you,_

_And I've seen your flag on the marble arch,_

_And love is not a victory march;_

_It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."_

_-Jeff Buckley, Hallelujah_

Alfred ended up carrying Arthur home that night. Luckily, his mom wasn't home, so they didn't have to turn stealth-mode to the maximum. Arthur was riding Alfred piggy-back with his arms pulled snugly over his chest as he giggled. Alfred scrunched up his nose in slight disgust at the smell of alcohol lingering from his breath. He never had liked the smell nor taste of the substance.

Alfred had reluctantly decided to bathe the smell off of him before his mom came home to the unwelcoming stench of beer or whatever they were drinking. Alfred never looked at the labels. (Was that bad?)

And so he pulled him into the bathroom, turning the water to a warm temperature as he set the drunken teen on the ground and pulled off his shirt and trousers, leaving his underwear on. And though he kept chanting _we're both guys it doesn't matter…_ he couldn't help the blood that fought valiantly to stay on his cheeks.

Arthur was put into the water and Alfred poured shampoo over his hair and his shoulders, smoothing the suds over and washing him. He'd never seen all his scars so close up, and in some way it scared him. He could only imagine what pain Arthur had been through that made him so silent around others. That made him hold his tongue and take everything without a word. He'd started to open up to him recently, and Alfred treasured that, however drunk, Arthur was just too adorable it was hard to remember how they'd met.

To Alfred, the whole thing was incredibly awkward, however Arthur found it amusing, giggling the entire time, yelling phrases like "it tickles!" when his hands ran over his arms and "I love tangerine scent!" when the soap was applied near his nose.

And before long, Arthur was tugging on Alfred's shirt, telling him that he should get in, too.

"I'll take mine after you," Alfred told him with a sigh.

"But that's not fair!" Arthur drew out the last word with a whine.

_Don't drunk people normally pass out by now?_ Alfred thought begrudgingly, and as cute as he thought it was, it was making him a tad uncomfortable.

Arthur crawled out of the tub and fell onto Alfred, soaking his clothes. "I don't want to if you're not there, too," he whined again.

"Ugh, get off me!" he feigned irritation in attempt to scare him off, but the red dusting over his cheeks was ever growing.

"Now it's coooooold," Arthur cried and held onto the closest source of heat: Alfred.

Alfred picked him up along with himself and hopped into the filled tub fully clothes, pushing the water over the edge. Arthur relaxed with the warm water swarming around his body again, but he didn't let go of Alfred. And they were silent for a while.

"I don't like bathtubs," he admitted quietly.

Alfred glanced down at Arthur's almost scared face. Had he missed it before?

"But it's okay if you're here," he continued, "You can protect me."

"Protect you from who?" Alfred asked curiously, his eyes narrowing.

"Daddy," Arthur said the all too familiar word—or was it more of a name?

Alfred pulled Arthur's body closer protectively. "Yes, I can," he whispered, "He can never hurt you again. And if he wasn't dead already I'd probably find him and kill him myself."

"You can't say that," Arthur croaked out and pressed a palm to Alfred's chest. "You can't hurt him."

"How can you say that?!" Alfred shouted, then remembering their proximity and quieted down. "How can you say that..?" he repeated more solemnly.

"He was mine," Arthur replied, "He was the only one that loved me…"

"He didn't love you!" Alfred exclaimed, only then realizing how harsh his words sounded.

"He did…" Arthur croaked, "He had to have…"

The larger teen ran his hands through Arthur's dampened hair comfortingly.

"Arthur, someone who _tortures_ you does not love you," Alfred seethed angry that he was under such an illusion.

He heard a sniffle, and glanced down to see Arthur crying into this already soaked shirt.

"I know…" he squeaked, "I know he didn't love me… But I try to tell myself he did… I wish he did… I loved him…

"And when I look back at it, I know I should hate my dad… But I can't bring myself to do it. I love him and nothing can change that. Despite all he's done, what I wouldn't give to go back in time and save his life," he ranted, adding in a soft voice, the trace of alcohol was long gone. "Even if it means giving up mine in due years' time."

* * *

Alfred had to drag Arthur out of bed the next day for school. Naturally, he didn't remember hardly anything from the night before, and he had a huge headache.

"Do I have to go?" his voice was muffled by a pillow as he laid face-down.

"Yes!" Alfred insisted and kept pulling on the covers.

Arthur literally _rolled_ out of bed, falling on his side, still refusing to move. "Leave me alone…" he groaned into the floor.

Alfred shook his shoulders to get him to move, but all of Arthur's muscles tensed up defensively as a reflex, leaving Alfred's hands retreating almost sadly.

The teen's figure lay on the ground stiffly, slowly relaxing to normal before Alfred opened his mouth and asked the question that had been nipping at his lips for months.

"Are you scared of me?" Alfred asked in a voice the size of an elf.

And for some time, Arthur didn't respond.

"No," came the small response.

"Do you not like it when I touch you?" he modified his question.

"I-It's not that…" Arthur whispered.

"Then what is it?" Alfred felt his voice rising and he tied it loosely to the ground with ropes the width of sewing thread.

Arthur breathed in.

"Touching hurts…" he said under a whisper, "When people touch me… it hurts…"

"Like, your… scars still hurt when they're touched?" Alfred cautiously mentioned as he studied the frailer boy's features.

"They just feel like regular skin now," he explained, "I've had them all my life, it's no different than having a birthmark." He paused before adding, "It just reminds me of him."

Alfred took the words in slowly, when something pieced together in his mind. Almost every time—if not all times—he mentioned his father, he said "daddy." He's never said "dad," "father," or anything else… Just the childish form of a father. "Daddy."

"Why do you always call him 'Daddy?' Haven't you grown out of that habit?" Alfred wasn't sure if he was pushing the limits here, but he was too curious to set it down.

"He never let me call him anything else," the subject didn't appear too difficult for him. "I don't even think I know his real name," he added shamefully.

"Do you think you're… Getting better..?" Alfred asked slowly; cautiously.

The time Arthur required to prepare his response was lengthy.

"I do."

And then the two were quiet for a period of time that didn't matter at all. It wasn't an awkward or uncomfortable silence, but instead a warm blanket of understandment. It was Arthur that first broke it.

"You know it's already half way through first period right?"

"_GET UP!"_

* * *

Alfred made a point of sticking by Arthur's side during the school day. It was seldom that you ever found them apart other than during class—but even then, they did have quite a few subjects together. And although Alfred was always wary of the Bad Touch Trio, they always wormed their way into the two's schedule.

Today, however, it was only Antonio at school. Apparently, Gilbert and Francis had hangovers and played hooky, and to receiving this information Arthur sent a glare at Alfred whom just shrugged it off. In all honesty, Alfred didn't mind Antonio too much; it was mostly the other two that irked him.

"So how'd your night end up, Alfred?" Antonio asked suggestively as they passed in the hall.

Alfred only blushed and Arthur gave him a quizzical glance.

"It was fine," Alfred mumbled.

"Just fine? Because when you left you and Arthur were—"

"Oh we're going to be late for class!" Alfred said louder than necessary.

"What are you talking about? We have another seven minutes!"

Antonio was stifling laughter while Alfred just continued to glare at him as if he would explode if he stared long enough.

"And what was this about me and—"

"Did you know my favorite food is hamburgers?" Alfred blurted out.

"Everyone knows that, git!" Arthur yelled, matching Alfred's volume.

Eventually, their sentences started overlapping and running together like a bowl of alphabet soup before they were silenced by the late bell. Cursing under their breath, they ran in the direction of their next class; a scowling Arthur, a flustered Alfred, and an amused Antonio.

* * *

Arthur could have sworn their Algebra II teacher _tried_ to kill him with boredom. He preferred letters over numbers, but that doesn't mean you can mix them up and call it even. His eyes wandered elsewhere in the classroom. This was one of those classes he shared with Alfred.

Alfred.

When Arthur thought about it, he didn't really know him did he? He knew his name, what his favorite things to do were, how _obnoxious_ he could get; how… What was the word… Understanding? Helpful? Healing? They didn't really fit it to Arthur, but those seemed to be the only words in English that came close.

He knew all of this, and yet, what was it?

_And for all you know, he could be lying about all of that._

Arthur's eyes widened slightly; where had that thought come from? And even strangely enough, the voice sounded so distorted… Like it wasn't even his own. Shaking his head, he brushed it off. Of course Alfred wasn't the one to lie. He was too caught up in his "hero" schemes to do so. And yet…

"_Sit!_

_ "Speak!"_

_ Remember that?_

Shaking his head faster, as if it would knock the thoughts out, his eyes wandered around the walls where motivational posters hung. A black one with a glowing star and hands that held each other friendlily, "_You're valuable! Don't let anyone let you believe otherwise!"_ and a gold one _"If you don't think anyone understands, think again!"_

_Unless these other idiots were tortured as well, they don't bloody understand._

Arthur clenched his fists. Where were all of these thoughts coming from? He'd never thought of… What happened… As _torture_. It wasn't. It couldn't have been. It wasn't. There's always someone who understands; like Alfred… He understood…

"_He doesn't love you_!"

…Didn't he?

* * *

"Are you sure about this Mrs. Jones?" Arthur asked as he took the package from her hands. "I don't want to be a burden."

"It's no burden at all! Now that you're my son, I'd like to think I can give you gifts every now and then," she smiled. "It's an iPod with an iTunes gift card. Just load it up with whatever songs you want!"

Arthur turned the box over in his hands, the frayed corners from hitting things while shipping brushed over his soft fingertips. The taped sides seemed to be cut already to make it easier for him to open. He still felt awkward about receiving something so pricey, but Mrs. Jones had already left the room.

Walking to his own, he opened the box gingerly, unwrapping it as he kicked the door shut behind him with little force. He'd never really listened to modern music before, so he looked through iTunes.

All the popular "must hear" songs he found annoying with squeaky, over-auto-tuned voices and only three notes sang the entire time. Looking in different genres, he found a few songs that were interesting, most of which being a couple years old. And then he found one genre he really found interesting: Rock.

He really liked those rock songs he found. Mostly Skillet or My Chemical Romance. He also found a few other songs he loved, one being Bullet by Hollywood Undead. At first, the tune combined with the lyrics shocked him and he clicked away kind of weirded-out. But going back, he found it strangely addicting.

He downloaded it.

After having the iPod for a while, he found himself listening to it for days on end. He was obsessed with music. It brought something out of him and he just couldn't get enough. He often fell asleep with the music crawling into his ears.

Alfred also noticed this. He found himself wondering what was on it that he loved so much, which drove him to enter Arthur's room one night. The boy was actually sleeping and it was only like eight at night. He looked so innocent in his sleep, Alfred noted. He still wore makeup around the house and only took it off to shower, but Alfred thought he looked fine without it.

He neared him slowly and quietly, picking the headphones out of his ears, and putting them in his own ears. He smiled at the jingling tune and child's voice singing cutely.

— _up in the sky_

_Like a bird so high._

_Oh I might just try._

_I wish that I could fly_

_Way up in the sky_

_Like a bird so high._

_Oh I might just try._

_Oh I might just try._

The next song started, but Alfred took the headphones out and turning the iPod off, setting it by his bedside. He brushed part of his sandy blonde bangs out his closed eyes. It was his eyes Alfred found most hypnotizing about him. They were a mystical forest he always lost his way in.

His face was so small and cute. It was so innocent. Even covered in marks of scars, he thought Arthur was adorable. Like he said, it was more of a birthmark that Alfred knew he could learn to disregard. Although the words were the ones that always made him shudder.

Indents and bumps of lines were carved into his face and Alfred followed each one that were now painted over with a flesh-toned remedy. The telltale _MINE_ that was carved into his forehead, he brushed his thumb over protectively.

"You're wrong," he whispered to no one, "He isn't yours, he's mine."

* * *

Arthur and Alfred walked to school each day, this I already told you. Arthur now wore headphones like a third limb. Music that screamed into his body came out as whispers to those around him. Alfred found himself watching Arthur as his eyes slipped shut when he visualized the lyrics and melodies.

Arthur found a new student in his class one day. He wasn't in any of his other classes, and no one seemed to talk to him. Arthur merely watched him from afar. He found him interesting, and the boy looked a bit too young to be in high school. He had blonde hair much like his own and a voice that was annoyingly pitched when he did speak.

"Hiya!" he sang in Arthur's direction in the middle of class.

Arthur's head swiveled around and he glanced at the boy that appeared to be dressed as a sailor—where was his school uniform?

"Shh!" Arthur hushed, glancing from the teacher and back at him. "We're in the middle of a lesson!"

"Oh don't worry about that," the boy's grin only widened when Arthur responded. "No one seems to acknowledge me. I'm human just like all of you! Why don't you acknowledge me?" he yelled to the classroom, being greeted with rustling of workbook pages and a teacher's droning voice.

"Even so, pay attention," Arthur whispered back somewhat awkwardly and buried his face an inch deep into his paper.

"Oh come onnn," the unnamed boy whined, "you're the only one ever to talk to me! Ever!"

Arthur felt an uneasiness; as if he knew the voice from somewhere.

"Try talking to someone else then. I don't plan on failing this class."

"Watch! No one else responds!" the boy stood and ran to another desk. "Hey! You!" he waved his hand in front of the brown-haired male whom showed no recognition.

Repeating this action to two others, even going as far as to running in front of the teacher, indeed, no one gave the boy any mind. He was the whistling air around them and the draft that flew through the room.

"See? No one else but _you_ knows me," he pointed out.

Arthur tried not to look at the boy, "Know you?" he asked, "I don't even know your name."

"Why didn't you ask?" the boy asked, his grin widening to the length that matched the Nile.

Arthur didn't respond, but the mysterious boy could tell the difference between ignoring and ignorance.

"My name's Peter!"

* * *

"Stop following me!"

"But no one else looks at me!"

"I don't bloody care!"

Arthur growled slightly and made a point of ignoring Peter as he followed him around to each class, each of which his name was not on the roster. "But it is! They just don't say it!" Peter had claimed. And even as the last bell sounded his gaze burned into his back on his way home.

"Hey, Arthur!" Alfred caught up with him with a wave.

Relief fell over Arthur's face at the sight of a familiar person—not a stalker or someone prone to hurting him.

"Ugh, don't ignore me! You're so lame!" Peter poked at his back.

Arthur turned around to scowl at the boy before returning his gaze in front of him.

"You okay? You look pissed off at something," Alfred asked.

"Fine and dandy," Arthur grumbled in response, grabbing his iPod from his pocket.

Letting it drop, Alfred watched as the ear buds popped into his ears and the music was turned on.

Arthur always wore such an expression when he was listening to music. It was bitter, but reminiscent, and yet such a gentle and sweet ghost of a smile that he rarely wore in moments of consciousness. Alfred dreamed that perhaps someday, he'd be able to provoke him to make such a smile.

Arthur's bedroom was filled with many books and plushies. Alfred's mother had insisted on remodeling the room to fit him the week he'd been adopted, and much to Arthur's resistance, she managed to drag him to the store to buy some things he'd like to put up in his room.

Many classic literatures adorned the shelves and stuffed unicorns, rabbits, fairies and other mythical or cute creatures were displayed on top of the book shelves. Each of the stuffed things had a unique name and a gentle nature, according to Arthur. One particular rabbit that Alfred and his mother found a peculiar shade of green was Arthur's personal favorite.

Arthur just looked at them, hardly ever sleeping with them. He felt fanciful desires to fly away or cast spells when he looked at them. He felt so calm; so at ease. They helped him as much as the music did.

And somehow, the peculiarly green rabbit fell from the top of the bookshelf to the floor as he fell asleep, and his eyes slipped shut with the image in his head.

Call it him being half-asleep, but if you asked Arthur, the mint-green bunny looked like he was flying.

* * *

**_...So did chew like eet? I hope it wasn't too terrible or anything! This chapter was a bit difficult to write because of everything that's going on in my life atm and I'm really stressed, but then again writing is a stress reliever for me which is the only reason why I write besides for you guys... (A lot of my stories on here would be left unfinished if they didn't get reviews XD) I mostly write poetry when that happens though rather than prompted things. ANYWAYS off topic now. Feel free to review!_**


	9. The Vargas Twins

_"I wear the memories you leave like scars _

_I don't know if I can keep on breathing_

_If I'm bleeding,_

_bleeding from the start."_

_-Crown of Thorns, Janet Devlin_

"How many times have I told you I am _not_ your friend; do not follow me, don't talk to me, don't even look at me!" Arthur yelled.

Peter smiled.

The new boy had been following Arthur around for a week now. It seemed nearly impossible to have the same exact schedule, but evidently, it was a possibility of a small margin—_not small enough_, Arthur thought.

It was lunchtime now and the boy was sitting next to him in the courtyard, swinging his feet merrily with a traditional brown bag that he hadn't opened. He'd rather occupy himself with gazing at Arthur and pretending not to be intimated by his glare.

Alfred always managed to find where he sat each day, and today was no exception.

"Hey Art!" he waved.

Arthur changed the direction of his scowl to the source of the silly nickname. Alfred laughed at this and hurried his way over, his hair flipping around messily and defiantly. Arthur turned his gaze away from him to his sandwich and took a vicious bite.

"Why do you always sit _so far_ from the cafeteria? I have to run to get here before the bell!" Alfred complained as he sat next to him.

"So that no idiot comes and sits next to me," he said pointedly, though more directed towards Peter than Alfred. Though he knew this was a lost cause.

"Always the loner type~" Alfred sang as he opened up his own lunch box and took out an identical sandwich and took a bite.

"Ugh, whenever _he's_ around, you ignore me!" Peter sneered at the word "he."

Arthur rolled his eyes and didn't reply as he shoved the straw of his juice box between his lips.

"He's so dumb, I don't get why you hang out with him," Peter continued.

Arthur sighed and positioned himself facing away from the annoying little boy.

"He's so mean to you, too! 'Sit' 'Speak' Remember that?"

Arthur's eyes widened as he turned to face him.

_That's_ where he knew the voice from.

"You! It was you saying those things in Algebra II yesterday!" a light bulb appeared above the dirty-blond roots of his head.

"Arthur..?" Alfred asked.

"So what if it was? It's true! Do you just disregard that one day because he's so nice now? He's just _pretending_! How much more would it hurt if he hurt you now than then?" Peter said.

Arthur's mouth opened and he looked as if he was about to retort when his facial features twisted into comprehension. There was truth crawling out of his annoying little lips, and so many shadows that screamed in whispers. It would hurt more now wouldn't it?

"Arthur, are you okay?" Alfred asked cautiously.

Arthur stood up. "I'm fine," he said stiffly and smiled a curved iron rod.

The bell rang and Arthur ran off to his next class with Peter tailing behind him.

Not that anyone else noticed, of course.

* * *

"Why do you keep glaring at me like I'm planning to murder your little boyfriend? Honestly, we've apologized a thousand times now!" Gilbert whined, tailing after Alfred (whom was in turn hovering around Arthur as they walked.)

"I only counted seventeen," Alfred retorted without glancing over his shoulder, blushing slightly at his reference to Arthur.

"We were jerks, we know, we're _sorry_," Francis added, annoyance edging in on his voice.

Alfred turned around, "Even so, that doesn't change what you did!"

"Neither does it to you! Do you forget you had a hand in some of what happened to him?" Francis argued.

Alfred finally quieted down, his teeth clenched and looking remorsefully into the cracks of the tiles under his feet.

"Besides, we're not apologizing to _you_," Gilbert spoke up again, and eyes were turned to a shrinking Arthur.

Arthur blinked, his eyes lifting to the rest of the group.

"We're sorry. Seriously, we'll never do anything again. We cool?" Gilbert stepped forward and Alfred's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Sure..?" Arthur tried to make his voice ring with finality but it ended up raising nervously into a question.

"See? Everything's good here," Gilbert concluded, turning back to Alfred. "I'm not going to kill him and Francis isn't going to rape him and Antonio's not going to—eh he doesn't do anything to begin with."

It seemed even mentioning the events was taboo in front of Alfred, as demonstrated by the murderous aura gathering around him. The group barely finished their confrontation before they were, once again, interrupted by the infernal bell signaling they had a minute before they were late to class.

Francis and Gilbert took off in one direction, later splitting up after a hallway or two and Alfred, Arthur, and Antonio all had art class together the next period. Hardly making in the door without being tardy, they rushed to their seats, though in art class, the teacher hardly cared if they were a second late.

"We have a new student today!" the teacher's voice spoke above the chattering children to start them off.

Some eyes lifted to the front of the room curiously; some showed no interest, staying glued to their project in front of them. Arthur happened to be one of the curious and Alfred one of the disinterested. Antonio always seemed to be in his own little word, so he fitted in to none of those categories.

"Ve~ I'm Feliciano Vargas! Nice to meet you!" grinned a boy whose face poured out elation.

The boy named Feliciano waved energetically and smiled as wide as the Earth's horizon. His hair was a reddish-brown color that had one string up hair rebelliously curling in the air and he had honey-glazed eyes. His voice rolled through in an Italian accent and he bounced on his heels until the teacher directed him to where he was to sit, which was in the fourth seat at the table with Alfred, Arthur and Antonio. The year started with open seating, but too many people had been messing around that the teacher had to add a seating chart. Luckily, the trio wasn't broken up.

"Hi, Feliciano, my name is Antonio," a stretched out palm met the new boy and he wore a grin that mirrored the one in front of him.

"I'm Arthur," Arthur spoke up, nodding towards the cheery character.

"Alfred," Alfred pitched in, seeing as introductions were going on.

The rest of class continued uneventful, the friends simply did their art projects in peace with the occasional criticizing, compliments, and small talk. Another bell rang, signaling the end of the period; a mix of disappointed sighs and relieved huffs filled the air around them as everyone filed out of the room for their next class.

Arthur and Alfred went their separate ways, as they parted an agitated look overcoming Arthur's features and he started grumbling to himself and glancing nowhere. Antonio took off to Algebra II.

* * *

Since the art room was relatively close to the mathematic classrooms, he got there pretty early. Taking his assigned seat, he sat back and put on his day-dream face, smiling dopily into the air. He hardly had time to enter Wonderland before a hand hit his head.

"Hey, bastard, that's my seat," a voice growled at him.

Antonio blinked, glancing up to meet a familiar face. Well, almost… darker hair, deeper voice, _definitely_ different charisma, but he looked almost identical.

"Feliciano?" Antonio raised a brow.

"Shut the fuck up, I'm not my stupid brother," he hit his head again, this time harder. "Now get out of my seat!"

"Brother..?" Antonio questioned, looking down at the number on his desk—indeed, he was in seat 17 when he should be in 16. "Sorry," he smiled sheepishly and picked up his stuff, carrying it a seat back. "You new here? I think I had your _brother_ last period. You look so alike it's scary."

"That's what happens with twins, idiot," the look-alike said gruffly and sat down in his seat.

"You're twins? So what's your name?" Antonio asked, poking his back.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

Antonio laughed, but withdrew his hand. He looked expectantly into a set of darker eyes than the ones he saw earlier. A pair of deeper, more beautiful eyes.

"Lovino," he admitted grumpily, turning forward again.

"I'm gonna call you Lovi!" Antonio proclaimed loudly.

"Call me that and you'll lose you're fucking tongue."

Antonio smiled. "Okay, Lovi~"

"S-Shut up!" Lovino blushed slightly and hit his shoulder.

Antonio laughed, smiling widely, and for once, he didn't feel he needed to fake it. It just came naturally. They spent the rest of the class, Antonio poking at Lovino's shoulders, playing with his hair, Lovino getting detention for screaming at him to "_keep his fucking hands off him_" in the middle of reviewing the Pythagorean Theorem, and Antonio volunteering to stay after with him, starting a whole new argument which resulted in said detention anyways.

The bell rang all too early for Antonio, which might as well have said "ready, set, go!" as the kids rushed out of the room, most of all Lovino. Antonio had never been one to run out of the class, but he found himself running after Lovino's footsteps and Lovino groaned as he found he had a shadow.

* * *

At the end of school, Arthur and Alfred planned to walk home like usual, and the Vargas twins happened to live around the area and walked home with them half of the way. Having Lovino there meant that Antonio would tag along as well, which happened to give tickets to Francis and Gilbert as well.

Alfred and Feliciano hit it off well and Arthur seemed to occupy himself by trying ever so hard not to look to his left, which strangely enough, nothing was there. Francis and Gilbert were cracking dirty jokes and laughing and Antonio was teasing Lovino again.

Feliciano and Lovino got to their home and Feliciano waved goodbye good-heartedly while Lovino made mad-dash for the door with Antonio running after him, saying "_you can let me in , Lovi_~" to which Lovino responded "_No way, get away from me_!" Antonio laughed when the door shut with a flustered Lovino behind it and Feliciano later had to knock on the door several times, answering various questions to prove he wasn't Antonio.

Antonio left the porch humming happily and hardly acknowledged the rest as he waved goodbye and turned heel in the direction of his own home. Francis and Gilbert decided to follow, (secretly making an agreement they wouldn't follow this route again because it was so _tiring_,) and that left Alfred and Arthur alone again for the next block they had before they reached their house.

* * *

Arthur kept trudging forward to the little remaining distance to their home.

"AR-THUR!" Peter yelled for the twelfth time, separating his syllables for good measure. "LI-STEN TO ME!"

Arthur twitched.

Honestly, this boy was getting _too_ annoying! And he couldn't bloody tell him off because he'd look like a nut. He'd learned his lesson about that in English class. He just didn't get why he was cursed with a little super-annoying-and-invisible-to-everyone-else boy.

Peter poked at his arm again and Arthur shrugged him away, irritated.

Finally arriving home, Alfred walked in first and Arthur followed, slamming the door firmly behind him to keep Peter from getting in. Alfred raised a brow at this, but didn't say anything, reasoning maybe he was just having one of those days. Since they were now into routine of living together, they didn't really spend every minute together anymore as opposed to the first week Arthur moved in.

Alfred's mom announced dinner would be ready at six and Arthur went to his room and shut the door like most days when he got home. Arthur normally tried to avoid falling asleep when he got home; he always tended to get nightmares these nights—and they were so strange he couldn't make any sense of them. There were just strange voices and people doing things to him that he couldn't even register. Some days it would be grotesque and other days it would just be eerie and creepy. He'd never spoken about his nightmares, he could hardly recall them.

His nightmares tended to be dark. Like he was locked in a closet. There was dim lighting around a figure that he couldn't place and the hands felt so distant and he didn't recognize them at all—and Arthur always remembered hands. His father's were rough and hard. Alfred's were big and protective. Francis's were soft and possessive. Gilbert's were confident and controlling. Arthur remembered hands, he always had, and so it confused him when foreign digits tried to rip his hair out and kick him against a wall.

In the dreams he was cold. The air would freeze around him almost like it was freezing into ice, and yet it kept moving around him. He would be alone, naked and curled into a ball; shivering and whimpering for someone to help him because he can't see. His elbow always hurt so badly, but he couldn't see it to see what the matter was.

And then the hands would come.

"_I'll help,"_ a voice lied from a grimy, spiked tongue.

And then he could hardly make sense of what was happening. The hands would do strange things to him, things he couldn't remember. Sometimes they would hurt him, sometimes they would caress his chin, setting black holes to gaze into his green irises. The hands would pull at his body as if it could rip it apart—and sometimes, it did.

He felt the pain of a thousand needles pricking at his shoulder and a million bee stings and the venom of words that got so distorted he couldn't make them out. He'd feel the frigid wind rush over his shoulder, feeling something rain down from his shoulder and feeling the absence of an arm. Pushed onto the ground, he would feel things he didn't even know what they were. Things that hurt and things that just felt _strange_.

The sun would rise but it would be a deep maroon, and send blood-light over the horizon, not lighting up even the closest corner. The voice would laugh darkly again and the hands would grip him somewhere else where his senses had stopped working—

And he would wake up.

Which brings me back to what I was getting at: Arthur never takes a nap when he gets home from school.

And so Arthur flopped on to the bed, simply staring straight up at the ceiling, not knowing what else to do. He sat up against the wall and stared at his stuffed animals, lowering his gaze to the rabbit on the ground from the other day. Standing, he walked over and crouched down next to the stuffed animal, cocking his head slightly, seeing it at another angle. Almost curiously, his arm reached out and he picked up the rabbit and sat down comfortably with the animal in his lap.

"Hello," he said quietly, feeling quite silly. "I'll call you Flying Mint Bunny. Seems pretty accurate right? Creative?"

Of course, the animal didn't respond.

Arthur laughed and shook his head almost disappointedly. _This is stupid._

"I decided to talk to you," he continued in a low voice, trying not to disturb anyone else. "I'm simply bored."

His fingers moved to make the toy nod.

"So you agree?" he confirmed and moved his fingers again, laughing at how dumb he was being. "I'm Arthur in case you didn't know."

_I'm talking to myself, how would I not know my own name…_

"Peter annoyed me again today," he grumbled. "Since you can't talk, you can't tell me I'm crazy. I mean, how can no one else _see_ him?"

The rabbit stared back with lifeless, black-beaded eyes.

"Can you see him, Flying Mint Bunny?" Arthur moved his fingers again, making the bunny nod. "So you know I'm not crazy!" he grinned, but it quickly faltered. "Of course… I'm talking to myself… _That's_ not crazy."

Arthur sighed, staring at the stuffed animal for a bit before something came to his mind. What if he just pretended the animal could talk back? Like make up random responses for it? It'd be better than talking to himself.

"Why don't you just go talk to _Alfred_?" Peter's voice called.

Arthur jumped. "W-What the—How did you get in my bloody—" he cut off, pushing his gaze around the room and resting on no one. "…house..?"

_Why don't I? _He wondered to himself.

_Because he'd think you're crazy, too._ He answered himself.

Or was it even him?

* * *

**_I've been meaning to introduce the Italies (Italys? Itali?) for a while now, but couldn't quite fit it in. Was it too rash? I hope not ;-; Throwing in some Spamano for viewer entertainment~ Sorry for short chapter BTW and for neglecting to update for a while.. I hope you liked this chapter though._**

**_BTW: I needa little help from fellow people with plot bunnies._**

**_SO_**

**_I really got the urge to try to write a romantic comedy fic. I HAVE NEVER TRIED IT BEFORE SO I WANTED TO TRY IT! The only problem is that every time I try it ends up with someone dying or being severely hurt or just plain depressing... That's how my mind works I'm sorry. XD _**

**_So, here's where you come in. If you have a plot or something that's fluffy or funny or cute or something but you don't want to write it can you PM it to me? I may screw it up since it's my first try, but I'd like to try it. Also if you find a picture on instragram or something that looks like it could be made into a fanfiction, you can tag me in it. (my instragram is shiawasedesu.) I found a couple but I kept making them depressing..._**

**_SO how 'bout it? Thanks for any help! Everything's appreciated! (Of course if you DO give me a plot, I'll credit you in the fic.:3)_**

**_OH ONE MORE THING:_**

**_I did this for my Lies story, so I decided to try it for this one too! If we ever reach 100 reviews, the 100th reviewer will get a gift-fic :3 You'll get to choose the pairing, plot, and genre :3 (Y'know if ya want it..XD)_**

**_SUPER LONG A/N GOODBYE UNTIL NEXT CHAPPY!_**


	10. Scissors and Icecream

_"All the things she said_

_All the things she said_

_All the things she said_

_Runnin' through my head_

_Runnin' through my head"_

_-All the Things She Said, t.A.T.u_

_Don't eat that. You're already eating too much._

_ Are you really going to wear that to school?_

_ You got that wrong? You're such an idiot!_  
Arthur had been hearing the voices speak more than often now. They intervened in his regular life and in any elation that ever managed to squirm into his mind. At times, he would see them speaking and other times it was just hearing the disembodied voices. Peter still spoke to him, but his words got harsher and more insulting. Others he'd seem to hear had shown themselves but not long enough for him to inquire a name—or even give them enough respect to request one.

He didn't care. He honestly didn't. They were just a nuisance and nothing they said was true anyways. If it was wouldn't other people say those things to him?

_Oh now you're thinking evil of others around you? They're too nice to tell you how much you're a screw up._

Yeah right. None of that was true. But still, he didn't feel that hungry and left the dinner plate on the table. But still, he didn't like that outfit much in the first place.

Earphones were flung recklessly into his ears, not caring if they were hanging out slightly, only that they were far enough in to drown out the voices. The music was turned to the max and_ Boulevard of Broken Dreams_ was played first. He walked with Alfred to school, though he didn't look at him much. The sidewalk was so intricate.

Peter pulled on his long-sleeved shirt, though he was a weak boy and the damage done wasn't much. Arthur continued to stare at the cracks on the ground and pay special attention to the flowers that danced in the wind, waving at him with lucid smiles. Ignoring Peter always was the best option. Don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't listen to—

"You have the ugliest hair today. Did you even bother to brush it?"

—him. Don't… Listen to him.

"Well I guess it matches your eyebrows."

Arthur closed his eyes tightly and ducked his head more as more of an instinct. He hugged the books in his arms tighter to his chest and tried to pay attention to how the air felt around him. The fuzzy fabric of his sleeves; it was winter after all. What month was it? December now? Christmas was in two weeks, and the first time, actually, celebrating it for Arthur. He was a bit nervous, to be honest. He's some kid the family picked up on the side of the road—where does he fit in in that?

_You don't._

* * *

What was he even doing? Why was he doing this? Arthur guessed he would test it out; didn't people say this made them feel better or something like that? It was silly, he knew that. It'd probably hurt, but he still felt the urge to try. Just one. He wouldn't do too much damage.

What did he even use? He guessed scissors would work. So do you just…

Arthur opened the scissors, opening them and picking at something on the blades before he closed them and placed it over his forearm. Not too close to his wrist, more like halfway between his elbow and palm.

He grazed them over the skin and they hardly made a mark. It didn't even _feel_ like anything. It most certainly didn't count, he decided. He moved the scissors over his arm again, applying more pressure but still moving it slowly, carefully, across the thin flesh. It pinched a bit, leaving a red mark, but drawing no blood. Well if there's not blood that doesn't really count either right? No, he still had yet to make a single cut.

The scissors quickly moved across the surface, and the dull blade didn't cut too deeply. A few beads of blood prickled up from a small cut.

_Wow are you really that weak? _

"I am _not_ weak…" he argued to chilly air.

The scissors scratched again and again, moving back and forth before he knew what was happening and before he knew he was crying. Why was he crying? Why was he cutting? Why was he doing _any_ of this?

_Because you're an idiot that hardly deserves to be alive!_

_ Do the world a favor and die will you?_

And yet his hand moved on its own; Peter's somehow stronger grip bruising his wrist and tearing at the skin with his own hand. It wasn't him that was doing this. It couldn't be.

His own green, glazed-over eyes regained the ability to see and he dropped the scissors with trembling fingertips. His arm felt numb and he rubbed his eyes vigorously to stop crying. He picked up the scissors again and threw them across the room. Landing with a clatter of noises, they fell into a corner, still open and tarnished with drying scarlet paint.

Somewhat panicky, he ran from his room to the bathroom at record speed and locked the door. He hastily turned the sink water on, putting his arm under it and wincing at the sting. About three inches of the skin was a pinkish-red and there were many tiny slashes over it, not opened, while others were much deeper—much _wider_—and blood cascaded sickeningly down the side of his arm.

Arthur lifted his face and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His skin seemed drained of color and his eyes were red from crying, his hair was a mess and his eyes looked vacant. His nose was too big and his eyebrows were monstrous and disgusting. His teeth were ugly and his eyes were the worst. His shoulders were too small—_he_ was too small. He was frail and stupid and _ugly_ and—

"Stop it… Stop it… Just…" he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the sides of the sink with white knuckles.

He tried to take more deep breathes and opened his eyes slowly with Peter behind him.

"I locked the door you bloody nuisance! How the hell did you get in here?" he shouted in a whisper so not to be labeled as mad for talking to "no one."

Peter sat on the toilet seat, looking back at him almost amused with a childlike aura and somehow something else lingered around him.

"Locking doors can't keep me out," he said in much too cheery a tone.

Arthur tried to hide his arm and Peter seemed amused with this too.

"I already know about that, idiot."

Arthur felt his heart crack slightly with the name. It never bothered him. It didn't mean anything. It was a dumb word. It doesn't _mean_ anything.

"You're so weak. Hurting yourself like that? Get over it!" Peter shouted, and yet he still looked so innocent. Like a lost brother.

"I don't know who I am anymore… I don't know who I was—I'm just _here_."

"And you don't think you should be?"

"Well what the hell do I do with my life?! I'm no one, no_thing_. I'm a burden to everyone around me and I don't know what—" he stopped, clenching his fists. "No one will love someone with scars. No one will understand what I've been through. I'm just _here_. How much I envy those whom have such a great life—How much I envy Alfred. He's so perfect, has a perfect life, and he hangs around this stupid person like me! I'll either have to live my life with the secret of my past or have everyone reject me! I'm _broken_! I'm just _here_!"

Peter was fabricated by his side.

"Well you don't _have_ to be here."

A knock resounded through the cheap wooden door.

"Arthur? You okay? I thought I heard voices or something," was it Alfred's voice?

"I-I'm fine!" he stuttered and turned the sink off.

He heard footsteps leading away and he took the toilet paper and wrapped it around his arm, watching at it turned pink. He held it tightly to the wounds and peeked his head out the door before dashing for his bedroom and slammed the door shut, taping the toilet paper in place. He tugged a thin sweater over him so not to have to look at it and sat numbly on his bed. It was a little chilly after all.

Maybe he could open a window to convince himself.

* * *

"Isn't that too loud?" Alfred shouted and tapped Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur pulled an earbud out of his ear and gave him a quizzical look.

"Isn't that too loud?" he repeated, referring to the blaring music.

Arthur shrugged in reply, turning away again and pushing the earbud back in.

Pursing his lips, Alfred eyed him suspiciously. He seemed so distant lately. Even when he initiated conversation, he'd brush him off. Was he really not that important to him? Alfred felt his eyes drop as well as his heart and he looked back up at the Brit whose lips were moving to mouth the words of the song and an unreadable expression on his face.

An idea sprouted in Alfred's head—all they needed was bonding time right? Hooking an arm around Arthur' waist he turned them around with a wide grin.

"We're skipping school today!" he proclaimed, much too loudly for the content of the message.

Arthur yanked the headphones out and looked up at the taller blond with a shocked expression.

"W-What? And don't touch me, git!" he grumbled and pushed him away.

"I said we're skipping school today!" he reiterated as his grin grew.

Arthur's shocked expression deepened as he spoke, "What the—we can't just skip school!"

"Sure we can! You're like super smart and don't need that crap anyways."

"What about you?"

Alfred considered this for a moment before he replied, "Well you can tutor me, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, however caved in. He didn't like his classes anyways. Alfred seemed to already be steering them in a particular direction.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Alfred smiled and exclaimed childishly: "Icecream!"

* * *

Arthur looked around the icecream parlor, feeling like a child again. He didn't quite know how Alfred convinced him to tag along on this whole thing, but he just looked so excited and those puppy-dog eyes (God how he hated those…) just made it all too difficult to turn him down.

Alfred had gotten a vanilla cone with chocolate chips, sprinkles, and caramel. (And that's just what was on top; who knows what was under that?) Arthur had gotten a cup of chocolate icecream plain and was seated at a table for two, seeing as most of the booths were taken by families.

Arthur had to admit the day was somewhat fun, but he was just not used to going out so casually. The way Alfred always talked to him made him feel different; like he wasn't as worthless as he was at the start of the year, or as he felt when he was left with his own mind and Peter. Even with him alone, he'd stopped the whole bullying problem he'd been having.

_So they don't really care about you. He's the reason they stopped. If he wasn't here you'd probably be dead by the end of the week by how many beatings you used to get. _

A voice carried emptily through the shell of his mind, and Arthur tried to shrug it off. He didn't care about the voices. They only spewed lies anyways.

He really didn't.

Arthur glanced up to Alfred enjoying his icecream, having it all over his face and he laughed at him, throwing a napkin at his face which stuck to the substance. Alfred blinked and laughed, too, taking the napkin and cleaning his face, but the sticky icecream and caramel was still there.

"Just go to the bathroom," Arthur laughed and shook his head.

Alfred nodded, pouting at being laughed at and set his icecream down regrettably before he ran off in the direction of the bathroom to wash his face. Arthur laughed to himself a few moments more before he calmed down.

Almost exactly at the moment Alfred left, his phone vibrated on the table, and Arthur glanced over and saw Antonio had texted him. He reached over his mess of an icecream cone and picked up the phone, reading the screen.

_I nearly forgot I had taken this! Your welcome! ;)_

Arthur raised a brow in confusion at the message. Taken what? He slid the screen, but sadly, it was locked.

"Hey, whatcha doin' on my phone?" Alfred appeared behind him and put his head on Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur leaned away, blushing slightly and said, "Antonio texted you."

The phone was taken from Arthur's hands and Alfred unlocked the screen, reading the message with a video attached to it. Alfred's eyes widened slightly and he shut the phone immediately and stuffed it in his pocket.

Arthur eyed the action suspiciously.

"What was it..?" Arthur asked.

"Nothing!" Alfred claimed, shaking his head and smiling.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean nothing? I mean, it's probably none of my business but you're acting really weird."

"I am not," Alfred denied and picked up his icecream to throw it away.

"Can I see it then? It was 'nothing' after all," he pressed and picked up his own paper bowl to put it in the trash.

"No! I mean… Okay! It was something, but you can't see it," he said with finality.

Arthur crossed his arms, scowling at him, and then smiled slightly, attacking him and taking the phone from his pocket and running off with it.

"H-Hey!" Alfred yelled, following him.

Arthur had ran to a fountain near the city's center and held the phone over the water.

"Unlock it and show me!" he demanded, "Or I'll drop it!"

"Come on that's so unfair!" Alfred whined.

They stood, staring at each other for the longest time before Alfred caved, giving a defeated look.

"F-Fine… But… It's…" he didn't know exactly what to say as he took the phone back to safety, unlocking the screen and Arthur hovered over his shoulder. "W-Well you were drunk and…"

Alfred just pushed the phone in Arthur's direction, looking away as he curiously took the device and clicked play on the video.

_The video started abruptly, midsentence with Arthur sitting on a very uncomfortable-looking Alfred against a wall. The Arthur in the video was smiling dopily as Alfred was blushing and looking at him weirdly. Arthur's hands were pushed onto Alfred's face oddly, as if he was feeling every little piece of skin._

"—_your face," the video's Arthur said, "it's so pretty."_

"_Thanks..?" Alfred said questioningly, muffled by a hand on his mouth._

_The video's frame shook slightly, trying to tape them from a better angle and Arthur leaned forward with their noses touching. The camera moved a little bit, getting a side view instead of from Arthur's back._

_In the video, neither of them moved for a moment—and then, almost in perfect unison, they both rushed forward and closed the distance between them. The quick peck turned into a deep kiss and then into a complete make-out session. They were both completely engulfed in the kiss and even the occasional moan escaped their mouths. After what seemed like the longest time, Arthur pulled back._

"_You're like _such_ a great kisser," Arthur slurred in an alcoholic state and giggled afterwards, leaving Alfred looking completely baffled._

_Alfred's hands reached up and touched his swollen lips in somewhat of a trance and took Arthur's arm, pulling him up to his feet._

"_You've had _enough_ alcohol, we're going home," he muttered and pulled him in the direction of the door a few feet before the camera clicked off._

Alfred was still staring the ground, blushing and fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Arthur was still staring at the screen by the time the video disappeared and the text message was back on the screen.

"Well this is bloody stupid," Arthur finally broke the silence with a look of irritation.

Alfred looked over at him in surprise. "What..?" he asked.

"So we kissed, but only _you_ remember it," Arthur side-glanced at him.

"I- Um… Yes?" Alfred stuttered, not knowing where he was going with this. He'd always thought of his reaction if he found out and this was definitely not it.

"Well that's not fair," Arthur concluded and pouted slightly.

Alfred blushed and watched as Arthur stood and started walking in the direction of their house, still looking somewhat annoyed as Alfred just looked confused. He'd always thought Arthur would be angry with him or just super embarrassed and apologize or something like that if he ever found out. He didn't really expect… this.

Arthur looked angry alright, but also contemplating. He seemed to be thinking a little _too_ carefully. Mostly because he'd just found out he'd had his first kiss and couldn't even bloody remember it.

As they got home, Arthur grabbed Alfred's wrist and pulled him into his room.

"A-Arthu—" he got cut off as he was pushed against the closed door of his room with Arthur over him.

"T-This is just because I want to at least know it, too!" he shouted without looking at him.

Before Alfred could question him farther, Arthur pushed his face forward and connected their lips, kissing him rashly at first before it melted into something sweeter.

Alfred's eyes widened and his heart felt like it was beating a million miles a minute. He kissed back timidly at first before it turned more passionate and his arms wrapped around his body. Arthur responded by dragging his hands through Alfred's hair. With wandering hands, Alfred dominated the kiss like the first and pushed back at him, having them stumble backwards and land on the bed.

Was Arthur feeling the same lighting through his body as Alfred was? That's all the was coherent at the moment: how amazing it felt. How much he missed having Arthur's warmth radiate off his body onto his own—and the even more passionate drive now that they were both fully aware of what they were doing.

Alfred seemed to have Arthur pinned beneath him on the mattress, not that it meant Arthur was contributing any less. Subtle moans drifted from their lips as they felt nothing but love at the moment. Arthur's hands messed up Alfred's hair and left his skin tingling from where his timid fingers touched. Alfred's own nimble fingers played with the buttons on Arthur's shirt, wanting to remo—

"Alfred F. Jones! What in _God's name_ are you doing?!" a change of air and a new figure stood aghast at the doorframe as the accused subject's eyes snapped up to meet his mother's.

* * *

_**Wow I'm so sorry with how shitty this chapter turned out. I failed... Please forgive me... I hope it was at least sort of kind of a little decent but y'know sucky writers suck. I'll try to update every weekend now that I have school and if I miss a weekend I'll probably update Monday or Tuesday. Hope you liked it and if you didn't please tell me in the reviews XDD**_


	11. Of Dusk and Dreams

"_The closer you get to the light, the greater your shadow becomes."_

_-Kingdom Hearts_

* * *

_ Alfred seemed to have Arthur pinned beneath him on the mattress, not that it meant Arthur was contributing any less. Subtle moans drifted from their lips as they felt nothing but love at the moment. Arthur's hands messed up Alfred's hair and left his skin tingling from where his timid fingers touched. Alfred's own nimble fingers played with the buttons on Arthur's shirt, wanting to remo—_

_ "Alfred F. Jones! What in God's name are you doing?!" a change of air and a new figure stood aghast at the doorframe as the accused subject's eyes snapped up to meet his mother's._

Alfred's eyes widened in alarm at being interrupted—by his _mom_ none less—and tried desperately to think of an excuse.

Giving a somewhat defeated look, he grinned sheepishly. "Kissing Arthur?"

"Well I can see that! Was this whole adopting thing just so you could keep dating or whatever? What happened to telling me about this?"

"No! We're not dating, this just- just sort of happened!" Alfred shook his head.

"So you go around kissing everyone that you feel like? And that looked like it would have been more if I hadn't come in here. You're only seventeen!" his mother exclaimed.

"I'll be eighteen in a couple months!" Alfred argued.

"You're actually considering it!"

"I'm not! I swear!"

Although blushing immensely, Arthur managed to compose himself enough and sit up straight.

"Mrs. Jones, really, it was nothing. Just a mistake. Haven't you been our age? Were you always perfect?" Arthur turned the matter to her.

Alfred's (or should I say both of theirs?) mother gave a sigh and looked back at them a bit more empathetically.

"Of course I've made mistakes, especially at your age," she admitted. "But you two are brothers now, and this is incest. Keep that in mind, and know I'll be checking on you two more often."

On that note, their mother walked out of the room, sending one last glance over her shoulder as she disappeared behind the frame. Alfred and Arthur gained more distance between them on the bed and didn't look anywhere in particular.

"Well that was awkward," Alfred broke the silence and looked over at Arthur.

Arthur nodded, unable to bravely find words like Alfred did.

Even the walls and carpet were silent except for creaking whispers of old hinges when a door opened or closed. The quietness was becoming all too familiar, and Alfred raised his voice to speak again.

"But at least you got her off our backs. I don't know what she would have done if she knew," he laughed.

Arthur looked over his way somewhat curiously. "Knew?"

Curiosity peaked in Alfred's eyes, as if they were on different pages of the same book.

"Well, we're not _just_ friends now right?" Alfred asked, tilting his head.

Arthur was quiet for a moment before he replied, "I was serious when I said this was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened."

Alfred's smile fell slightly. Everything that just happened… Everything he just felt—thought _both_ of them felt—was it all wrong? Was the electricity sparking through his body only with himself? He couldn't take that. It just felt wrong to assume such a thing. It _had_ to be both ways.

"You didn't… Feel anything?"

"It just… Just happened. We lost our minds for a moment."

Something akin to impatience flowed through Alfred's body.

"But you're dodging my question," Alfred pressed and grabbed hold of his wrist.

"We were caught up in the moment. This isn't love," Arthur stated in a low voice, still looking away.

_Then why is my heart beating so fast?_

Alfred turned so he could look at his face directly, forcing their eyes together. Green and blue irises dancing in perfect harmony and yet discordant was the music.

"I want you to look me in the eye and say you didn't feel _anything_ in that kiss."

Arthur felt spikes prickle up his arm at Alfred's touch and jerked his hand away. He stood shakily and turned to face him, gazing blindly into his passionate eyes. And such words found from his chapped lips felt so cold.

"I felt nothing."

* * *

Arthur Kirkland ran with a burning heart—though the burn not from running this time. The chilly night air worked against his cold arms and torso, only a thin shirt and layer of makeup to cover the flesh. He knew it was only making it worse to run, but he needed to clear his head.

Everything was fine in his life—less complicated—until he met Alfred. And yet, until he met Alfred he hadn't much of a life. For the first time in his life he'd known compassion and love—and not only romantic love. Just simple brotherly love. _Kindness_ in a sense.

This wasn't right.

It felt as if he was just clinging to the first source that was decent to him. He's overreacting. There's a _difference_ between love, like, and lust. Since he's never had anything remotely close to them… How does he tell the difference? But there's a reason they all start the same way.

He's a child.

Arthur had never had his first crush, his first love his first _like_ even. Why must there be those whom expect him to act on impulse and come crashing down when he's so lost?

Arthur didn't know for how long he'd been walking before he found himself sitting on a park bench next to a stranger. Well perhaps not a stranger; he looked familiar but he couldn't remember his name, though his face seemed familiar.

"Stop looking at me like that, bastard, what do you want?" came a brash voice through the shadowy air.

"Sorry," Arthur apologized softly, "It's just that you looked familiar."

The man next to him squinted through the dim shadows, and Arthur could make out his features from under the dim street light.

"Feliciano?" Arthur inquired.

"It's just like everyone to think I'm my brother," the twin mumbled and crossed his arms.  
"Sorry, I'm Arthur. What's your name? I don't think we've properly met."

Lovino scoffed. "For good reason, too."

Arthur sighed. He didn't need to question any further to know he wasn't going to find much a companion out of this guy. He pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned back on the bench. The air pushed his hair around and he didn't bother to fix it. He felt so right out in nature. He often wished he didn't leave Oscar.

There were lightning bugs out that night. They flashed around and mingled with each other to fill the void of silence. Arthur was never much for words anyways. Words were nothing compared to the beauty of action and sight. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

You could hear the faint laughter in the background by a couple passing by behind them. They were in their mid-twenties, and by the looks of it, they were deeply in love. Arthur could feel his lips lift into a soft smile; an action that was not often performed by the boy.

The crickets' arthritis had been cured and pulchritudinous music was played on woodwind instruments. Arthur took a deep breath and took in the pine and whistling breeze. He felt like he belonged out here. Caged walls reminded him of the past; the trees and wind reminded him he was free.

"So why are you out here?" Lovino asked quietly, not rashly for a change.

Arthur's smile stretched. "What _am_ I out here?"

"I just asked you that, idiot," he stared down at the flowers that were wilting.

"Well I guess it started as running here to escape Alfred. You?"

The man flung his arm in the direction of his home. "Waiting for the Spanish bastard to clear out of my house."

They were submerged in another chilling silence.

"Life is so screwed up," Lovino blurted.

Arthur turned to look at him sideways, half in question, half in agreement.

"Isn't it?" Arthur asked, turning to face the normally-angry teen. "Want to talk?"

Lovino sighed looked down at his feet. "I just… Everyone always looks at how amazing my brother is and expects me to be the same," he started in a quiet voice. "I'm not fucking perfect like him. Don't they get that? My grandfather especially. He treats Feliciano like God and pushes me down a river. My dad died in war; MIA. My mom left when she realized our dad was never coming back. Everyone leaves me."

Arthur's gaze had drifted away during the story but he hung onto each word.

"What about you?" Lovino turned the tables.

Arthur almost smiled. "It's complicated."

"So I spill my life story and get nothing? Give me _something_ to go on."

The night air swirled between them and the stars danced in the sky as they gazed upon the ballet show. There was a certain quietness overcast on them as if it was raining, and yet, they were so dry and cool. A strange sort of silence and beauty.

"I was born in England," Arthur started.

"Explains the accent," Lovino interrupted softly.

Arthur nodded briefly.

"My mom died in child birth and there's no record of a boyfriend or husband. A lot of people just thought that she got pregnant on mistake by some guy while having fun or whatever. I'm not so sure about it though. Anyways, after that, I was put up for adoption and someone here in the US adopted me, and here I am," Arthur spared any gruesome details.

Lovino said gruffly, "I guess I'm not the only one with issues."

A pair of familiar arms appeared and grabbed Lovino.

"What the?!"

"Lovi~!" Antonio's voice chimed.

The melancholy atmosphere lifted and the moon took the spotlight from the dreary stars.

"Let go of me!" a blush spread over his cheeks and he swatted weakly at the arms.

"Never!" Antonio grinned and managed to pick up the smaller man and carry him back in the direction of their house.

Arthur watched their figure retreat almost as soon as they had appeared. He could hardly make out a shout from the distance, obviously Antonio's voice.

"Bye, Arthur!"

Arthur chuckled to himself, not bothering to reply since Antonio probably wouldn't be able to hear him from this distance.

Deciding it's about time to go back as well, he stood from the park bench almost sadly and walked back solemnly in the direction of Alfred's home.

* * *

By the time Arthur was home, Alfred seemed to have returned to his own room and was presumably asleep. Arthur managed to slip into the house without anyone noticing his absence, _not that anyone would care if he was gone anyways_—God, he had to stop thinking like that.

His bedroom seemed gloomier and the walls confined him in such a manner he didn't feel fond of. He opened a window just halfway and felt the cool air leave imprints on his skin. He gazed out into the luminescent stars and he wished—just for a moment—that he could be an astronaut.

It's a silly dream, really; a dream that all children have at some point. By the time you reach a certain age, the cruel world had a tendency to wring out any aspirations lingering in your childish heart. Being an artist wasn't a logical profession. Being a dancer couldn't pay the bills. A musician? Forget it. You're not smart enough for math. Those two really smart girls in biology class already have the scientist job laid out on a silver platter.

And you can't be an astronaut either.

If Arthur concentrated just enough, he could change the colors of things in his mind. He could visualize things that weren't there all on his own. But, they were there, to Arthur they were. For something to be "there," what are the requirements? Must others acknowledge it? By that definition, a lot of things in Arthur's life wouldn't be "there."

His bed felt soft, and yet, a certain roughness at the same time. The pillow wasn't under his head, leaving him staring at the ceiling. Black splotches clouded his vision, and before he knew it, his eyes slipped shut and he fell into a deep slumber.

* * *

_Arthur was climbing a rope and his hands felt slippery and damp. They hurt with the pain of a thousand suns. His body weight pulled him down and he clung to the dingy thing with all his strength. It was the only thing he could see, for the rest was black—pitch black shadows. He could hear other people struggling around him, and he felt pity well up in his heart. But why, when he was in the stuck in the same situation?_

_ He felt lost._

_ His hands were crimson and it led trails of splotches and grotesque prints on the rope. He could see his flesh ripped and tattered at the palm. Perhaps his hands were bleeding, but in this light, you never were too sure. _

_Arthur's mind was murky and he couldn't see past any amount of fog clouding his thoughts. _

_ Oh his mind, it was so weary and it wouldn't work at all. It was a clock with a broken hand and a missing peg. His brain felt smashed into mushy pieces and shredded into things that no one cared enough to place into a waste bin. _

_ Everything about his body felt tired. Fatigue was all too familiar to the boy and he wished to close his eyes—just for a moment. There were many kinds of sleep, and he didn't know which one he would succumb to if he allowed himself. He didn't know if he wanted that, and for all he knew, he could want to welcome sleep with warm, open arms and a scarred heart._

_ Gradually, he felt his hands slipping on the liquid caked over his hands. Clenching his teeth, he gripped harder and fought the urge to yelp of pain. His muscles felt tense and he lost his grip, his fingers unwrapping from the taut hold._

_ He could feel he was falling—he could. But where was he falling to? Centuries could have passed in the time he was sitting in nothing. His heart jumped up to his throat and sheer fear was crawling from every orifice in his body._

_ He could feel he was falling—he could. But he was frightened of where he would land._

* * *

"I found him!" Antonio sang loudly as he opened the door boisterously with a struggling Italian in his arms.

Feliciano didn't look too surprised and greeted them at the door.

Antonio and Feliciano seemed to submerse in a conversation while Lovino continued to slap weakly at his shoulder, obviously losing his drive. No one else seemed to look his way, though he was in the arms of one whom was in the conversation. Of course, he was always in the shadows of a greater figure.

Antonio's smile stretched wider around the pair and he glistened brightly even at dusk. Lovino was enraptured in his own mind while the blabbering idiot continued to spout nonsense. Why the world tended to speak in such ways, Lovino would never know.

It didn't take long for Feliciano to offer the wonderful man a chair at the dinner table, only for the offer to be turned down by a glance at the clock. Antonio bid his farewells, sending Lovino an unnecessary smile on his way out.

And the act crashed as the last soul left.

Feliciano's dopy look dissipated and Lovino's scowl melted to a neutral tone. This seemed routine for when family was on its own.

"Are you ready for dinner?" Feliciano asked his brother in a tone much lower than he would if others were present.

"Anything's fine," Lovino responded blandly.

The table was set in relative silence, but it was not an awkward silence; that is just what things were like in the Vargas household. The plates and utensils clinked around as they touched the fine china and scraped up food. The usual meal was spaghetti and meatballs. Being from Italy, they were quite good cooks—especially with anything with tomatoes or pasta.

"You shouldn't shut him out," Feliciano said quietly, almost cautiously.

There was a few moments of silence before Lovino responded, "I don't know what you're saying."

Hurt flashed over Feliciano's features.

"We used to tell each other everything," he said, "Why are we so different now?"

Lovino shook his head. This wasn't worth his time, he decided. His brother would just often be in these types of moods when their grandfather was not home and they were there alone for dinner. They didn't care much—they tried to convince themselves. They were adults, and they were mature enough to handle themselves—they tried to convince themselves.

"I can tell," Feliciano tried to continue.

"Tell what?" said Lovino, a bit agitated at this point; his fork pierced a meatball.

"You're growing fond of Antonio. What's so wrong with that?"

Lovino put down his fork. "I don't know what you're going on about," he insisted almost viciously, "But I would hope you think before you speak next time."

The unsettled man stood from his dining chair with a squeak across the wood flooring, picking up his unfinished plate of food and taking it to the sink. He wasn't that hungry that day, he reasoned. He turned around in the direction of his bedroom to see a grim looking Feliciano a few feet from him. He looked at him with such remorse in his eyes glistening of unshed tears.

"I know you're scared after what happened with me," his voice trembled, "but don't let your love slip through your fingers when you have a chance."

His footsteps were far too loud as he walked forward, holding his hands and gazing wistfully between his fingers.

"Don't let him slip away like mine did."

* * *

_**I hope you liked this chapter! I admit, not much happened, but I focused more on character development. That's important too right? Also I'm trying to make this last until 50k so that might also be making up for lack of things happening. **_

_**I have decided: I'm going to rewrite this as a novel for NaNoWriMo. THEREFORE: Updates will be a lot more frequent. My goal is to write 1k a day, so updates will be every three days (and if I miss a day feel free to PM me and go all WTF ARE YOU DOING WRITER-DUDE?!) So it'll be done sometime by the end of October. THEN I can rewrite a chapter a day during November and have it all done by the time it's due! WHEW I HOPE THIS WORKS!**_

_**Also, I'm entering an original short story of mine in a contest (CREATE) so wish me luck for winning! I'll let you know how I do though I doubt I'll win XD **_

_**Remember to review~**_


	12. Tarrant

_"I'm lost..._

_So lost..._

_Will I ever be able t__o see the sky _

_Again?"_

_-Kingdom Hearts III Theme_

* * *

_"Feliciano, you forgot your script on the table!" a voice called to the stage, summoning an eleven-year-old Italian._

_ The boy ran from the set, hopping down the stairs quickly and giving an apologetic look to the person holding his script._

_ "Sorry," he said sheepishly and turned around just as the words left his lips._

_ The other people standing on the stage waited patiently for the main character of the play to take his place before they read over their lines a final time and set them aside. The stage was lit up with different lights of sorts and everyone was in their costumes. _

_Feliciano was wearing a green dress, playing a girl who tended to flowerbeds each day and was enslaved by two adults, and yet, had kindness growing continuously in her heart. Feliciano was gifted at acting and so he could play the part better than most girls, and he didn't mind dressing as one. In the play, his name was Rene. _

_Throughout the play, Rene met a man a few years older than her, and he helped free her from the people hiding her heart from the world. The two had no romantic interest in the play, and were more of siblings than lovers. They felt the need to protect each other rather than pursue. The man's name was Tarrant._

_It was opening night for the fourth grade play. The people scanned their lines and others were trying to calm their nerves. Feliciano stood in his spot for their first scene, greeting the man playing Tarrant. Feliciano felt his heart move faster and he tried to look into his blue eyes without fainting of a heart attack._

_Tarrant was all he knew the man by. For whatever reason, it was incredibly difficult to inquire his name. They always seemed to be interrupted. _

_Tarrant was not in his class, and so he knew him only through the play. And though he knew they were only but strangers, Feliciano felt a connection with him; felt something different with him. The roughness of his hands that were a bit larger than his own. The warmth that spread through him and a gentle smile he wore. His hair was bleach blond that would probably fade throughout his years. He tried to deny it through the months they'd rehearsed, but it was inevitable. He'd grown to have a bit more than a crush on Tarrant._

"_So, Rene," Tarrant used Feliciano's stage name, "You nervous?"_

_Feliciano smiled. "Just a bit! Who wouldn't be, you know? Are you?"_

_Tarrant laughed a marvelous melody. "Of course."_

_The quick exchange of words was all they had time before the director came backstage and called for everyone to the stage. It was show time. Tens of kids ran to the stage, bearing excited smiles and bundles of nerves. Tarrant waved before walking offstage. He didn't come in until later. Feliciano got in his position, sitting on his knees by the flowerbed. He wore a natural smile as the lights blinded him and the curtain opened._

* * *

Arthur walked through the hallways of his schools clutching his binder to his chest as if it was his life source. The books wrapped in his arms dug into his skin and left red streaks but he didn't care much. The winter air was starting to give him a chill and he wore a thin jacket. Some daring children chose to wear short sleeves, and half of them regretted it.

The fringe of Arthur's hair dusted over his forehead and he seemed to be staring holes in the ground as he maneuvered around the seas of students. He drowned out the voices he heard frequently with the shouts of chattering teenagers.

"_Arthur_," they called.

"_Arthur_!" their voices were elongated minor keys.

"_Arthur_~" they sang.

_They're not real. You're just hearing things again._

_ "Arthur, it's rude to ignore us."_

_ "Hello? Anybody home?"_

_ No. I'm not talking to you._

_ "Arthur?" _

_ "Arthur."_

_ "Arthur!"_

_ "_Arthur!_"_

A hand held onto Arthur's shoulder and the boy jolted of surprise and fear skimmed over his green irises. His heart jumped through his chest until he recognized the person next to him. Alfred. It was just Alfred.

"Geeze, you've been ignoring me! I've been calling you for ages!" he complained.

_ It was only Alfred. Of course it was. You're losing your mind._

"Sorry," he apologized somewhat dryly.

Alfred seemed to accept the rash apology and started babbling about his next baseball game. Arthur had tuned him out after the third sentence, trying to give his weary mind a rest. The pair walked through the emptying hall and Alfred turned into his class with a smile and a wave, leaving Arthur on his own.

Lifting his arm a bit, Arthur attempted to wave back but Alfred's back had already turned by the time it was in motion. He dejectedly lowered his arm and continued the few meters to his own classroom. Arthur turned into the room, feeling his chest constrict in fear at the sight of the boy whom always wore the sailor outfit.

"Hi, Arthur!" Peter innocently waved.

Or perhaps, he would have looked innocent to anyone other than Arthur.

You know, if he existed in reality.

* * *

_"It's fine, I'm used to it," Feliciano smiled and waved off the actor next to him._

_ "It isn't fine! They're using you and you're getting hurt!" Tarrant argued in a strong voice._

_ Feliciano loved that voice._

_ Tarrant took hold of Rene's hands and held a valiant stance. Feliciano fought the blush on his cheeks. This was only an act; it wasn't as if Tarrant would do this out of this type of context. But then again, his name wasn't actually Tarrant._

_ "You have to leave this place, Rene," Tarrant said in a low voice._

_ Feliciano nodded numbly. "Perhaps, but what about my parents? They'll be left on their own…" he looked down._

_ "They're not your real parents," Tarrant said, "They're abusing you."_

_ "It isn't right," Feliciano's character, Rene, shook her head._

_ Tarrant took hold of Rene's chin, gazing passionately into her eyes, "This is right."_

_ Rene bit her lip, glancing around for a moment and took a step back, towards the exit. Tarrant smiled, happy she was going to escape this place with him and he walked with her to the gate. There was something wrong though… Why were there other actors by the exit? They hadn't rehearsed that way had they?_

_ "Where do you think you're going?" Rene's slaveholder shouted._

_ What was going on? Where were they getting these lines?_

_ Tarrant turned around, surprised as well. _

_ "She can't stay here anymore. You're all monsters!" he improvised._

_ Suddenly, the two actors by the gate grabbed Rene._

_ "Rene! What are you people doing?" Tarrant demanded, panic edging his voice._

_ The other actor stepped forward and withdrew a sort of weapon. It was only a wooden staff, however, it looked a bit heavy for the eleven-year-old boy to hold._

_ "You can't just take her away. I _need_ her," the actor said in feigned anger._

_ Tarrant ran over to Feliciano, holding his hand and turning defiantly to the rebel actor._

_ "I can't let that happen!" a bit more than improvisation was spewed from his lips._

_ "Tarrant, don't," Feliciano begged, "I don't want you getting hurt."_

_ The audience was still and watching them intently. For children, they seemed to be great actors. The atmosphere of panic between Rene and Tarrant felt so real._

_ The actor with the staff held it high, pointing atop the gate._

_ "You can't take her away, and that's final!" his voice wavered as well as his strength and the wooden weapon fell onto Tarrant's head, pushing him into the flowerbed._

_ But where there are roses, there are thorns._

_ The slaveholder's eyes widened at the mistake, however it looked as if it were planned. Tarrant let a cry of pain, trying to sit up. A sharp needle had pierced his back._

_ "Tarrant!" Feliciano screeched. If only he knew his real name. He wanted to call it. _

_ Rene—or was it Feliciano?—broke against the weakening hold of the other actors and ran to his aid. He caressed Tarrant's head in his lap and his throat clogged up. Blood was soaking through his dress but he cared not for clothing at the moment._

_ Supervision from offstage were rushing towards the scene and blocked by other staff. With shaking heads, they explained it was part of the play. So why were their own eyes so surprised? So remorseful?_

_ Tarrant tried to move and hissed at the pain in his back._

_ "R-Rene, it hurts," he said simply in a much more feeble voice._

_ "Tarrant…" Feliciano whispered helplessly and his soft voice was picked up by a microphone._

_ The two were quiet for a moment and Tarrant's eyes started to grow heavy. Feliciano panicked, hitting his chest mindlessly. Anything to wake him up. He would do anything._

_ "No! Don't close your eyes! Look at me!" he demanded, tears welling up in his eyes._

_ "I'm so tired," Tarrant said hoarsely, "It really hurts."_

_ Tarrant's weakened fingertips brushed against Feliciano's arm._

_ "Tarrant! Y-You can't leave this way!" tears fell onto Tarrant's cheeks as Feliciano started to sob._

_ Tarrant's chest moved up and down rapidly and Feliciano's head snapped up with tear-stained cheeks._

_ "Help me! Somebody! He's dying!" Feliciano choked out and tears clung to his chin._

_ The others were frozen in place from shock._

_ Feliciano dropped his head and rested it on Tarrant's chest. _

_ "Tarrant, I love you, you can't leave me," he whispered so only he could hear._

_ Not even that triggered much a response._

_ "You're going to stay here forever," the actor's voice wavered and he tried his best not to show regret or sorrow. "You can't ever leave."_

_ "I don't care! I hate you all!" Feliciano screamed at them with anger and hate falling from his eyes. "I hate these flowers, I hate the world, I hate myself, I hate love, I hate everything, I hate everyone, I hate YOU!"_

_ Feliciano's shoulders started to shake violently and he wept without shame of being on stage._

_ The curtains started to close with the "final" scene even though the planned play should have carried on for seven more. Adults immediately rushed to Feliciano and Tarrant's side. Foreign arms grabbed the wounded boy and people called for an ambulance. They stole Tarrant away._

_ "What the fuck was that?!" Feliciano yelled in anger, not caring for the curse that left his mouth. He didn't care for anything now._

_ "F-Feliciano calm down," the teacher tried to coax._

_ "Why did they change the script?! Why did they kill Tarrant?!" he demanded in a screeching voice._

_ "I didn't mean to!" the actor claimed. _

_ "Tarrant isn't dead, he's just hurt. That wire used to keep the flowers together pierced his spinal cord. He's being taken to the hospital. We just thought it would be interesting to have someone intervene and take you back and have a more powerful scene. We never mean to physically hurt Tarrant, though," someone explained._

_ "Well you got your powerful scene!" Feliciano sobbed and tears recollected in his eyes. _

_ Feliciano felt hollow and he stood shakily, hugging his body and feeling sick from the sight of Tarrant's blood on his costume. _

_In anger, he ripped the skirt off, leaving him in the underdress. With a strong arm, he threw it at the teacher, running off and wiping lingering tears from his eyes. He avoided the path that was visible to the audience and sprinted to where Tarrant was being carried off._

_ He found himself in the middle of the parking lot; sirens blared in his ears. _

_Cupping his hands around his mouth, Feliciano shouted: "Tarrant! Where are you? Are you okay?"_

_Feliciano's head swiveled around, searching frantically for his wounded soldier. _

_The boy could never find his love._

* * *

The walls of the classroom felt so confining and so cold. The windows might as well have bars over them. Arthur scribbled more answers into his math test, trying to ignore the boy sitting next to him. He swore he could feel his chilly breath on his shoulder. Peter started to laugh and Arthur's hand froze.

Was he doing something wrong? His eyes scanned his question and he thought he did it correctly. He did, didn't he? Just keep writing. _Just keep writing._

"Oh you're _such_ an idiot," Peter laughed mockingly.

Arthur bit his lip.

_If no one else sees you, I don't either. You're not real. You're not real. You're not real._

His pencil moved a bit more hesitantly and Peter's presence felt more real than the test.

"_Arthur_," he heard them again.

_Be quiet…_

"_Come on, talk to us!"_

_You're not real…_

"_Aren't we fun to be around?"_

_Please stop it._

"_We're the only ones that like you enough to talk to you!"_

Arthur clutched his head, feeling an aching pulse and he couldn't stop the voices that were resounding and echoing in patronizing volumes. His pencil dropped from his hand much more audibly than he intended and his eyes screwed shut.

But nothing would silence the demons.

He heard Peter starting to laugh again. He was laughing at him. He was laughing at him. Why was he laughing at him?

"Arthur?" he felt a hand on his shoulder and couldn't help the scream that surfaced from his throat.

The hand flinched back and he could feel eyes on him, and yet he couldn't move. He couldn't do anything but shiver and try to shrink away. He needed to be alone. Leave him alone. He doesn't want anyone right now.

"Arthur, are you alright?" a voice was blended into menacing ones.

Arthur's breathing sped rapidly and his hands shook over his ears.

"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet…" he chanted softly in a pitiful tone. "Why won't they be quiet?"

The teacher rushed to the phone and called the office, explaining the situation in near panic. This brought the school nurse to the classroom, and it wasn't hard to single Arthur out from the rest of the students. Looks of confusion, fear, and some of amusement were cast into Arthur's murky green seas.

"Arthur, dear? I need you to calm down," a gentle voice tried to coaxed him.

But Arthur could hear nothing except the voices screaming in his subconscious.

"_Arthur, you're being called. It's rude to ignore her."_

"_You're such a rude boy."_

"_Maybe that's why you're such a disgrace to everyone."_

"_Who would ever love someone like you?"_

Arthur shook his head violently and fearful, frustrated tears started to form in the corners of his eyes.

"_You think Alfred would_?" they laughed.

"Shut up already… Shut up, shut up, _shut_ _up_!"

"_You're greatly mistaken!"_

The students started to whisper around him, some making jokes and some just sitting back frightened. To Arthur, the ceiling felt as if it was caving in, and he started to hyperventilate. How do you breathe again? Arthur didn't know. Arthur didn't care.

"_Do the world a favor and just stop breathing!"_

Arthur felt a pinch in his arm and looked blindly to the nurse whom had stuck a syringe in the flesh. His vision got blurry, his limbs going limp and he fell out of his chair unconscious.

The nurse looked somewhat pitifully to the boy on the ground and picked him up gingerly, placing him in the golf cart she drove around campus, and the students now knew the intended usage for the thing. Securing him in place, she started to drive to the clinic, casting a last glance over her shoulder to the disrupted math classroom.

"Times up," the teacher said somewhat distractedly and picked up Arthur's incomplete test.

* * *

"_What class is Tarrant in?" Feliciano asked the teacher the following day with hate burning his voice._

"_Tarrant?" was the oblivious reply._

"_From the play! I don't know his real name!" _

_The teacher showed no recognition. She knew no one named Tarrant. Who was Tarrant?_

_Who was he indeed?_

_Feliciano didn't care he'd get written up for skipping; he ran from the classroom and into the neighboring one. His eyes scanned those of whom were sitting in class. He found no one he knew, calling to the teacher of this classroom now._

"_Is Tarrant from last night's play in this class?" he beseeched._

_The teacher looked at him in bemusement._

* * *

_ "How does no one know who he is?!" Feliciano yelled to open air. "He exists! He does! What happened to him?!"_

_ Feliciano sunk to his knees outside the school. He felt his eyes dampen once more and he choked back on more sobs. His fingernails dug into the dirt and he wanted more than anything to find Tarrant._

_ "Tarrant... Are you alive?" _

* * *

**_ ...I'm mean aren't I? _**

**_Anyways I wasn't lying when I said updates were going to be a lot more frequent. XD You'll find my A/Ns a lot shorter when I'm depressed so this is all I got. See ya next chapter~_**


	13. Peter, Alfred Gilbert, Ludwig

There was a bright light. As blinding as the sun; as flamboyant as fireworks on the fourth of July—though it was a pure white. It wasn't large, no, it did not shroud Arthur's vision in entirety; it simply dotted along in a merry line. Said spot of light moved horizontally, and his eyes followed it without much interest.

"You're reacting just fine," the nurse encouraged and put away the tiny flashlight. "Now, we'd like to get you checked out for the episode you just had, but we'll need parental consent."

Arthur watched the woman silently, and her eyes scanned his for a moment before she continued, "do you have your parents' phone number?"

The words plugged in with a single spark in Arthur's mind and he shook his head slowly. Never having the need to call "home," he'd never gotten around to memorizing it. The nurse nodded slowly and ran around to behind a small desk, clickity-clacking on her computer for a while before she looked back up with a thoughtful expression.

"We don't seem to have a number in the computer," she said. "Do you have siblings in the school by any chance?"

Arthur blinked numbly, hardly noting anything she was saying. His siblings, as far as he knew, were dead. If he even knew them in the first place. The only one he ever met was Allistor, and he died moments after Arthur had met him. No, Arthur didn't have siblings anymore.

Unless Alfred counted.

Yes, he probably did.

Arthur opened his chapped lips a crack and let out in a feeble voice, "I have a legal brother, Alfred F. Jones."

* * *

To say Alfred was surprised to be called to the clinic wouldn't be entirely accurate. Yes there was surprise involved, however, there was mostly curiosity and a slight happiness for being taken out of a boring history lecture.

The halls seemed to elongate as he walked through them, and his curiosity was growing continuously until it nearly consumed him. He'd been called to student services or the front office numerous times—though he'd seen them all coming. But being called to the clinic? What did he have a scrape on his elbow and they wanted to give him a bandaid..?

Even that seemed farfetched.

The atmosphere around the clinic was a mixture of despair, confusion, patience and mundaneness. The air felt cooler, but not in a ghostly manner. The sayings posters plastered were just as cliché at the faces on them. Huge (most likely photoshopped) white-toothed grins and those phrases you hear at every checkup like _an apple a day keeps the doctor away_.

And Alfred didn't know what had happened. Even when approached by the nurse and asked for the phone number of their mother, he hadn't a clue why he'd spilled the digits; why his mother arrived looking just as confused as he. He hadn't a clue why she'd signed a consent form and what the form was for.

He hadn't a clue why Arthur was pushed into another room, only that he remained inside for the longest while. Strained ears had tried to hear bits of conversation from behind the abhorred wooden door. And even as Arthur returned from the other side a few hours later, his eyes remained just as guarded as before; they hardly moved at all.

But just for the briefest moment: his pale green eyes lifted with reluctance and locked with Alfred's.

A pang of pain; of despair; of helplessness— and then it was over.

Apparently the test results weren't going to be released for a few more days, or perhaps a week or two. And the first time Arthur spoke in Alfred's presence that day was when they urged him to go home; so after great reluctance, the clinic allowed him to go back to class just in time for art.

* * *

Arthur wasn't crazy. He knew he was sane; he had always been sane. He didn't understand why all of this was just pushed onto him in so little time. He didn't know who he belonged to. He felt pushed around into other people and their desires flooded over his own. What desires? Arthur hadn't a clue what he wanted from his life.

Could it even be called that?

It had to be normal. It had to be normal, is what Arthur kept telling himself.

Other people must hear things—other people whispering to him. Other people _had_ to have seen people that others couldn't. Others were like him. He wasn't alone in this. He wasn't abnormal, and he wasn't insane.

The charcoal that he grasped tightly felt frailer and he moved it across a white sheet of paper. The stroke was so clean, and yet, so jagged at the same time. Once over and once again, he threw the lines onto paper and they connected on their own. The paper became cloudy and dark and his hands became shrouded and masked.

Art was, perhaps, the only solitude he could find in the world. The only thing that would let him be himself rather than listen to these things telling him what to be. The lines started to form circles and various shapes; his teeth clenched and he rubbed the paper harder.

He reached blindly for an eraser and rubbed at the substance vigorously before he overlay more lines and shapes. The layers got thicker and he erased more. His eyes seemed to glaze over and only his soul moved his arm around. He drew, he drew, he drew.

And suddenly all ceased. His hand unclenched and the nub left of the charcoal dropped to the tabletop. His eyes refocused and he looked at the drawing made. He couldn't breathe.

What had happened, why had he drawn him? It was Peter. Why had he drawn Peter? He didn't even know how to draw well, so how did this drawing come to life? How did the darkness from behind the charcoal radiate off. It consumed him. He couldn't breathe. It choked it him.

Alfred looked upon the drawing silent as well. It was a bit messy; the lines were scattered with panic and insanity and hurt and pain. There were few parts of the gray-white paper shining through and it looked like a mess of scribbles. But look closer; look closely.

There was no mistaking it: there was a face hidden in the drawing.

At first glance, you don't see anything. But the longer you stare, the more it appears. It was menacing, it was evil. You could almost hear the hysterical laughter and mocking glares from an innocent, childlike face.

Antonio had seen the drawing now.

Even Feliciano glanced over and his shining smile had wilted in the slightest.

The disrupted table had been consumed in a new atmosphere and felt enraptured under the drawing's spell.

How was it possible a simple piece of paper had such an effect?

The teacher had wandered into their area and fell under the same impression. His breathing slowed and he looked at the drawing for a moment before he cracked his lips open.

"Arthur, you drew that?" his voice was low.

And Arthur, unlike the slow breathing of the others around him, had a racing heartbeat.

He nodded stiffly.

"It's amazing," the teacher said wondrously. "You've never entered the art shows."

Arthur shrugged indifferently. He wasn't that great at drawing, to be honest. However this one came to be, it was not by his hand. It couldn't have been. He wasn't in his right mind—_something_.

He couldn't have made this.

* * *

"You know," Peter cooed in his ear, "You should cut again."

Arthur closed his eyes tightly. He wouldn't. He promised he wouldn't. That one time was a mistake, and the scars just faded yesterday.

His bed felt cold and crumbly—like sitting on a piece of overcooked slice of cake, left outside to cool too long. It was after school, and like most days, he had locked himself in his room. The outside world wouldn't work for him. Other people wouldn't work for him. They were all hurtful.

Arthur's iPod was at maximum volume and he hardly flinched at the noise. It was times like these where the only thing that would drive Peter and the others away was blaring music so loud he couldn't think of anything else but the lyrics.

_You fall to your knees_

_You beg, you plead_

"_Can I be somebody else_

_For all the times I hate myself?"_

_Your failures _

_Devour _

_Your heart in every hour. _

_You're drowning_

_In your imperfection._

Arthur mouthed the lyrics silently with an almost pained face. The volume wasn't enough. He could hear them. He could hear whispers. It made his skin crawl, his eyes glaze over. Unable to deal with it—Arthur couldn't do it.

"Cut yourself again. Once more won't do too much harm," Peter giggled childishly next to his ear.

Why was it that his soft voice was more overpowering than the deafening music?

Deafening. How he wished it could be deafening.

His walls seemed to shrink, closing in on him each minute.

_ Disappear, disappear, disappear._

Arthur clutched the blankets closer to his chest and he tried to hide within them. The warmth they provided was not the kind he needed. Desired.

Peter urged, "You know it's the only way to make yourself better."

He would not, he would not. He promised himself.

"Promises are made to be broken."

They are not, They are not. They are made to be kept. He would not.

"Just once. Then you're done."

Arthur had trembling fingertips.

"It can't hurt, right? In fact, it'd help."

He couldn't! It was impossible! He promised… He didn't want to! Why wouldn't Peter just be quiet already? Arthur wasn't caving in. He wasn't. He couldn't. It simply wasn't possible. It wasn't it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't…

So why was he holding the blade?

* * *

The next day wasn't as cold as the previous ones, yet Arthur continued to wear his sweater. The pine trees around him had started to wilt and lose their green leaves. Under his feet, the road was gritty and the gravel crunched. It was a bit hot, but his wrist was sore and his cuts were pretty visible… He didn't want anyone to notice.

"But to notice your cuts, they'd have to notice _you_. I don't see that happening," Peter laughed beside him.

_Eh, he isn't wrong. But I still don't want to chance it._

"Chance an impossibility?" Peter's laughter ranger higher and louder.

"Stay out of my head… Stay out of my head…" Arthur whispered to himself and closed his eyes.

Tighter, tighter.

"Arthur?"

"Stop it… Stop talking to me!" Arthur's voice rose above his whispering tone.

"What did I do?" a hand fell on his shoulder.

A shudder racked Arthur's body and he turned to the hand, his hands fisted on his shirt, his eyes still shut.

"Stop it! Stop touching me! Talking to me! Telling me things I already know! I know, I know_, I know_, I know these things so stop telling me! Just kill me already!" Arthur shouted.

Arthur opened his eyes at last and stopped breathing when he saw the shoes in front of his.

They were not Peter's.

His eyes lifted hesitantly, meeting clear blue eyes in front of his. _Alfred's_ eyes.

"A-Alfred?" he croaked out, his pupils shrinking.

"Who else..?" he asked.

Arthur could feel the shock resonating from his voice and he bit his lip. Beating; his heart was beating a million miles a minute and wouldn't calm down. He felt the need to breathe, and yet, his body wouldn't let him. What had he just done—said—to Alfred? He hardly remembered, though since it was meant for Peter, he knew it was terrible.

_Idiot! Idiot! I can't believe I just—Idiot! Kill yourself! Kill yourself! Kill yourself!_

"Kill… You?" Alfred repeated, his eyes searching for answers.

"I didn't mean… I…" Arthur had trouble finding words.

Arthur stumbled backwards. He could feel his body being pulled like a magnet; some unknown force pulling him back.

Arthur was running.

He hit branches and vines out of his way, nearly tripping over tree roots and found himself in an unfamiliar forest. There were snakes on the sides of the path, but he daren't pay mind to them. His shoes slipped on a patch of leaves, but he picked himself up. Run. _Run_. He ran to nothing. He ran through the forest.

He was back in the clearing.

How did he get there?

"Oscar," Arthur whispered hoarsely.

Trudging forward, Arthur lay a hand on the tree. Everything was as he left it. The book was sitting on a tree branch, his bag was next to the tree and a few tubes of makeup were out of the bag already.

He hadn't realized just how much he missed this place.

The walls of Alfred's house were much too confining for him. He needed to be out here.

He picked at the dirt and the grass. Somehow, the land felt different. The air had a different feel. The clouds sighed and gazed upon him vacantly. The sun. The sun was dark.

Rolling over on his back, Arthur stared up at the world he'd lost. Who was he? Lost, so lost and vacant were his eyes and he felt void of a soul.

He fell over to his side, standing up shakily. His eyes fell upon the stream that ran through the clearing. With trembling fingertips, he dipped his hand into the water. It felt colder than he remembered.

He didn't have to ask this time.

He fell into the river without an intention of surfacing.

* * *

Gilbert laughed as he scrolled through the next facebook page. God, his friends could be idiots. _Funny_ idiots—but idiots. Francis had just posted a picture of him trying to jump off his roof onto a trampoline and into a pool. Needless to say, a spring popped on the trampoline—which he hardly landed on by the way—and he hit his head on the side of the inflatable pool.

Antonio had sent him the link, and Gilbert made a mental note to thank him later. Clicking the save button, he saved the video to use as future black mail. Next time Francis tries to get out of giving his end of a bet, he'd just bring up this baby. Oh what fun he would have…

There was a certain eerie feeling in the air and Gilbert looked around to the front door that had just clicked.

Unlocked?  
The door swung open and there were heavy footsteps along with thumping noises by bags being dropped.

"I'm visiting for the next month. Sorry for late notice," said a stoic voice with no real apologetic tone.

Gilbert looked upon the figure in the room, dressed in a green military uniform and slicked back bleach-blond hair.

"Ludwig?"

* * *

**Welp yup. There's the sucky chapter... Sorry... Ugh I'm just so depressed lately it's hard to write. I'm really sorry for the short chapter, but this is what I got. There's no quote at the beginning since there's one in the middle. (Which is from the song Imperfection by Skillet.)**

**Well, on another note, I thought of something kinda fun to do. So I thought I would change my profile picture to a picture of me until the end of the month kinda like a Halloween costume XDD Just in case anyone was wondering what I looked like.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading again. Your reviews really drive me to continue writing so please review!**


	14. Fallen

"_I must have held your hand so tight_

_You didn't have the will to fight_

_I guess you needed more time to heal._

_Baby I just ran out of band aids_

_I don't even know where to start._

'_Cause you can bandage the damage_

_You never really can fix a heart."_

_-Fix a Heart, Demi Lovato_

Death wasn't painful: it was peaceful. The moment your life is being ripped from your soul—the feeling varies person to person. If one were to yearn for death, the feeling would be placid and calming; however, if one were resisting their fate, the demolishment of life would be painful.

And Arthur felt at peace.

The water was chilly during the winter and the boy could feel ice flaking around him. And the stream's water grew shallower and shallower it grew. So much that Arthur found his body shivering and half out of the stream. He hadn't a clue where he was. He could hardly think at all.

His body trembled violently and his teeth chattered. Blue lips moved to form no words.

The sun had peeked out from behind a cloud now, but it daren't do much to warm his frigid body. Even his blood had chilled by now. His clothes clung to his skin like sheets of ice.

And so he just lay there, growing tired, growing tired. His eyelids drooped down and he fell to sleep. He didn't know just when he'd wake up, if he ever did.

* * *

The atmosphere felt heavier.

Gilbert looked up to his younger brother, bemused on why he was here—wearing a German military uniform. Ludwig seemed to read his mind.

"I know you're wondering why I'm here, so I'll make it quick," he said in German, "You have to come back home."

Gilbert looked at his brother incredulously, his thoughts running wild.

"Why would I have to come home? I have friends here now!" he replied in German as well.

"You don't have a say in the matter," came the gruff reply. "You have a month to pack and say goodbye to your friends."

Ludwig then proceeded to carry his bags deeper into the house, in search of the guest room, leaving Gilbert alone in the room.

And at the moment, a million things dashed across Gilbert's mind; he didn't know quite how to handle the information. He knew it was useless to argue, seeing as Ludwig was merely a messenger—that or it was just in his nature to be so plain and informative. Either way, Gilbert hadn't an idea of how to say goodbye. Did he have to?

What if he just left without a word?

* * *

Arthur opened his eyes, but the darkness hadn't fled. The air had chilled and his clothes were stuck to his body stiffly as the water had dried away. He stood shakily in the night, shivering and holding his body. His legs screamed in resistance and wouldn't do much to cooperate, and this didn't help the fact that he was soaked from roughly waist down.

He knew not of his location.

Arthur had wandered blindly, blindly he traveled through nothing in the black of night. His eyes lifted wistfully to the stars which stared blankly back at him.

Stars never could grant wishes.

_"Everything is wasted on a boy who doesn't want to live_," something whispered.

_"Why feed a lost soul?"_

_ "Why heal one who will harm?"_

_ "So weak."_

_ "You couldn't even take your life."_

And once again fatigue won over his body, and he collapsed in that spot, falling behind the curtain of consciousness, whispers of voices ghosting behind his ears.

* * *

This was meant to happen.

Gilbert hadn't expected to stay in America forever, right? He _had_ to move back home at one point or another. And a year ago, he wouldn't have cared. But here he had people who cared about him, and he was certain not a soul remembered his name for face—maybe Ludwig's—but not his.

Clothes were flung carelessly into suitcases and he didn't care much for what was being thrown in. He didn't pay much attention to anything. Everything good comes to an end at one point or another, it was inevitable. And still, he hadn't a clue as to why he was moving home, but Ludwig surely had his reasons.

He hadn't realized his eyes had lost focus until they were forced back into clear vision by something thrown in front of him. It was… A military uniform?

Gilbert turned around, faced with the familiar stoic-faced brother of his.

"Father wants you to join as well," he stated clearly.

Gilbert's eyes flickered from the uniform and back to Ludwig a few times as the pieces started to click. Had he been… drafted?

"Join the military? In Germany? I-I'm not even of age! I'm hardly eighteen!" Gilbert exclaimed before he began to think. "And neither are you! You're sixteen! Why are you in the military?!"

Ludwig's demeanor hadn't changed in the slightest as he replied, "Father is the general of the armies and he says that I am ready. I've been serving two years. Now, he's short on men, and you must join as well."

Fourteen? Ludwig had been fighting for Germany since he was only fourteen? He knew that his brother grew up bulkier than he had, and he certainly was tougher and more mature—but to be deprived of innocence from such a young age?

"It's illegal," Gilbert stated lowly, "You can't force me."

"You're being a child," Ludwig's voice gained authority. "And you will never be a man until you can fight for your country."

"I'm an American citizen now!" Gilbert defied.

"So you choose America over Germany? You are no longer loyal to your family or land?" Ludwig had stepped closer, and Gilbert now noticed just how much taller he was than him.

Gilbert felt his heart beat quicken and he stared blankly at the chest that was but a few inches below his line of sight. He could not reply.

"You are a disgrace," Ludwig spat and turned immediately to exit the room.

And just as he got to the doorframe, he spoke again.

"However, your will means nothing. You will fight for Germany and we will leave on January second. Be ready."

Gilbert's gaze wavered in place before he fell to his knees. Now was not a time for breaking down, though.

It was a time to prepare for war.

* * *

_ "I hate your body."_

_ "I hate your face."_

_ "I hate your heart."_

_ "I hate your soul."  
"I hate your scars."_

_ "I hate your eyes."_

The list would grow and grow and the volume would only grow and grow louder. Arthur couldn't take it. He couldn't listen to these things anymore. He couldn't count the amount of times he'd turned around to nothing but a voice. That he'd spoken to thin air. That his eyes focused on nothing.

Even Peter would appear and disappear now at random. His voice would blend into the others.

_"I hate your mind."_

_ "I hate your voice."_

_ "I hate your art."_

_ "I hate your breath."_

_ "I hate your scent."_

Arthur only ran faster, faster, _faster_ he ran. How did he get in here? How does he get out?

Did he mean the forest or his entanglement in the voices? Even I haven't the slightest clue.

He hit vines away with his hands, scratching and scraping his arms. His feet were aching and he ran with a limp. His eyes were squeezed shut and he ran blindly; it didn't matter after all, the shadows and dimly lit night sky weren't enough to see in the first place.

He yelped of pain when he tripped. Over what, he hadn't a clue or cared in the first place. His ankle now felt warm and sticky, setting a sickly feeling in his stomach. He stood again, electricity shocking his leg, but he ignored it. He just needed to leave. He needed to get out of here. How did he get lost in this place? It used to be his home.

Used to.

Where was his home now?

_ "You have no home."_

The sun began to rise oh so slowly, bringing an orange glow to the sky. It would have—could have—looked beautiful had not been for the daze clouding the boy's vision. He lifted his gaze helplessly to the stars that were even fleeing from him now.

"Don't run," he said in a pleading voice that would have shattered a heart.

And suddenly a smile cracked into his face. He laughed.

What had become of him?

_ "Become of you? You were always this messed up."_

_ "This useless."_

And suddenly Peter was at his side again. Arthur hadn't flinched with the abrupt appearance, used to it by now. The air around him felt so empty. He didn't try to touch Peter anymore; he didn't feel anything but air. He didn't try to argue with him anymore. He knew the truth behind his words.

The flame that was his heart had been extinguished.

"You're annoying," Peter said.

"I know," is what Arthur had said in reply.

"God, even your voice annoys me. It'd sound so much better silenced."

Arthur obliged.

"And everyone hates you, you know?"

Green eyes met the ground and he nodded slowly. Of course he knew that.

"Francis, Gilbert, Antonio, Feliciano, Antonio," he counted off, "Even Alfred."

Arthur bit his lip.

"I know," I have never heard a more feeble voice.

"And your father," Peter took note of how Arthur's body stiffened. "He killed himself because he couldn't stand the sight of such a disgusting son."

And then Peter was gone.

Arthur blinked rapidly, swiping at his eyes with dirtied palms.

_ Stop falling. Stupid tears… Stop…_

And a strangled cry came from his throat, but he didn't stop walking in shaking steps. The physical pain of his screaming body was ignored in favor of the far worse pain of shattered shards of a glass heart.

Arthur hardly realized he had made it out of the forest, and was now walking along the road he once ran through to get from school. The sky was clearing now, taking on a soft blue shade. It looked as normal as every other day. It was still much too early for school, but he found himself wandering in that direction.

His feet seemed to move themselves. They trudged and slid across the pavement heavily. He was past a gate. In the halls. On the stairs. By a door.

When had he gotten to the rooftop?

* * *

"Arthur?" Alfred shouted again.

And again and again.

He couldn't find him anywhere. What did he mean when he said…

"_Just kill me already!" _

His voice was still resonating within his mind.

He called his name again and again, louder and louder. The shock of his words had clouded his mind too much and he didn't think to try to keep track of where he'd run off. His home remained barren, the streets showed no sign, and even Antonio and Francis hadn't seen him. He hadn't been able to get a hold of Gilbert.

And as the sun started to rise, he felt his hope wilting. It had been hours. Where could he have ran to?

Then again, Arthur was always running.

Alfred felt a sort of pull in the direction of his high school. Ever since he'd met Arthur, he'd felt this sort of attraction—physical attraction—towards him. And something told him it was him again.

His pace quickened into a sprint as he made his way to the school. Far too early for students, the whole place was deserted and it gave him an eerie feeling. The air was still cold for morning, though the sky had been lit into a lighter blue than the dark-indigo of black night sky.

And then he saw him.

_Arthur_.

He ran even faster, to catch up with the figure that was running as well. What was he running to?

"Arthur!" he desperately called once more.

The figure grew smaller.

His breathing was ragged and jagged as he followed him. His heart beat was in insanity at the moment as he tried his best to catch up with Arthur. He was able to inch up closer, though the distance seemed more elongating than shortening.

The boy even dashed up stairs. Where was he going?

"Arthur!" he attempted again, to be returned with the same response than before.

And he didn't stop until he came to the roof.

Arthur seemed to recollect himself, panting hard breaths with his hands on his knees.

"Arthur?" Alfred had tried a last time in a quieter voice than before.

And yet the boy seemed to hear it.

Arthur turned around in a jerky movement, shock evident in his eyes. His body instinctively moved away from him at the sound of his voice. What had Alfred done to invoke such fear?

"Are you… Okay?" he asked carefully.

Arthur's breaths were uneven and shaking, and his body was in a similar state. Wide green eyes filled with helplessness, hurt—or was there nothing at all? A mind that ran a million miles in the opposite direction of the finish line. The words registered, but just barely. Okay? Such a foreign word.

And so he didn't respond other than take a cowering step backwards.

And for once, Alfred saw someone else: the boy that was crying under the tree. The boy that was afraid of him.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" Alfred asked, almost pleading for him to respond in a way that showed he was still the Arthur he'd grown to know—grown to love. "Arthur, why are you _up_ here?"

As Alfred's voice grew more demanding, more panicky, Arthur's figure stepped backwards and backwards. His hand touched the edge of the building and he peered behind him over the edge. His gaze was longing.

"It would be so easy," Peter whispered, reappearing beside him. "To just jump."

Arthur bit his lip. It _would_ be easy wouldn't it?

"You could see your father and mother again," Peter continued. "No one would be troubled by your presence anymore."

Arthur nodded. Alfred's family had to put up with a bastard child that wasn't even theirs. This is why he never felt at home in their house—why he never felt at home even beside Oscar. He didn't belong here. He had to leave; go to where his parents were.

"Arthur, why are you up here?" Alfred repeated louder, his thoughts getting scattered now.

Why was Arthur looking down so intently? It set his nerves on edge. It almost looked like he wanted to jump. How absurd. He would never do that. He would never jump—or so Alfred kept repeating. Or so he tried to convince himself.

"I dropped something," is what Arthur finally said in a feeble voice. "I'm looking to see where it landed."

His voice was smooth and calm, yet emotionless. His eyes never deterred from over the edge. How soft the asphalt looked right now.

Alfred felt relief flood his system. "Well just come down and look for it like a normal person!"

Peter interjected, "_You'll never be normal_."

"I thought it would be easier," Arthur whispered in a broken voice, his eyes never reaching Alfred's despite Alfred's pleas to look at him.

Alfred sighed. Nothing was wrong. Arthur was just being weird or something right now; he's not suicidal.

"Gosh, you scared the skin off of me…" he breathed, "Come on, let's just go home or something. Want pancakes for breakfast?"

Arthur started to shake his head.

"Now you're a liar," Peter said, "You lied to possibly the only person who could ever put up with you. How sweet."

"I can't," Arthur felt his cheeks dampen. "I'm sorry, I can't."

Alfred looked at him suspiciously, "It's no big deal. It's just pancakes. Want to just stay at school then?"

Alfred stepped forward, and to his shock—Arthur moved away.

"I'm sorry," he said under a whisper, taking yet another step away from him, "I'm sorry I lied…"

"Lied? About what?" Alfred felt his heart beat faster. Arthur was too close to the edge for Alfred's comfort.

Arthur leaned backwards, ignoring Alfred's shout of "Be careful, you'll fall!"

"It isn't your fault… I'm just tired."

"Arthur, what on Earth are you talking about?" Alfred's voice was starting to speed up, but his words had no effect on the smaller man.

"It's everyone… It's everything… There is nothing else left for me here."

And before Alfred knew what was going on, Arthur pushed his heel back and fell.

It all happened in slow motion.

One minute, he was there, and the next—gone. Alfred could hardly comprehend what was happening.

Or what he was to do.

He pushed forward, throwing himself over the edge as well and he wrapped his arms around Arthur's falling body.

The fall didn't last long at all—it was only but five seconds before they'd meet the hard cement.

There was a sickening snap of something Alfred didn't care to place and he felt pain skyrocket through his body. His arms were tight around his love and only then did he realize he'd managed to cushion Arthur's fall. His lips twitched upwards only to find it hurt even to smile.

He was smiling on the inside though.

The slightest he would move his body it would result in a crunching noise and a cry of pain. Everything in and of him felt shattered. His heartbeat was failing him, speeding up faster and faster and faster and faster only to find it was too laborious to breathe. His heartbeat was failing him, slowing down slower and slower and slower and slower and slower—yes it was much too laborious to breathe.

And yet, he was not done. He had something to do. He moved one arm off of Arthur's body that seemed to be unconscious now. And by some trick of fate, he managed to reach for his cellphone in his pocket.

The screen was cracked, and called the first name on his speed dial.

_Don't pick up._

Ring.

_Please, don't pick up._

Ring.

_ Leave it._

Ring.

_Please_.

Ring.

_ Don't pick up._

Ring.

_ At the tone, please record your message._

* * *

**_You do not have permission to kill the author. IT HAD TO BE DONE! Hehe climax scene FTW~ Pretty much the only good thing about being depressed out of your mind is that you can write things like this. I don't think I've ever cut so much in one day... Mwahahaha... _**

**_Oh yeah btw if you don't know what drafting is, it's basically when you're forced to go to war. The original way to do it was to draw a date and anyone born from Y to Z had to go to war. The legal age to join the army is 18._**

**_Welp I hope you liked it to some extent; please revieww~_**


	15. The Man with the Name Tag

_"We are not clean, we are not pure, we cannot rest until we're sure._

_So rob your pretty little eyes of sleep's disguise._

_I'm at your bedside with a bucket full of lies._

_So clear your ears and listen-_

_Up, M'Lady- Pack your things, this place is not your home."_

_-LA Dispute, Said the King to the River_

There was a soft beeping noise that periodically sounded. Eyelids opened heavily, taking in a blinding light. Breathing was gentle and slow.

"Patient 411 is awake," a voice said lowly over a radio.

Hazy and blurred was the room, as was the figure walking towards him. Who was he again?

"How are you feeling, Arthur?" the same voice asked.

Arthur blinked slowly. His eyes lazily moved around the room that was gradually coming into focus. The air smelled of medicine and air freshener, and the room was a dingy color of blue and green. The owner of the voice was female with long brown hair and a name tag he couldn't read. What was this place; why was he here?

"Arthur, I'm going to ask you a couple questions. Can you answer them for me?"

Arthur was still gazing absentmindedly around the room, showing no recognition of the words. The nurse nodded nonetheless, shuffling her papers.

"What's your name?" she asked.

Arthur furrowed his brows together, replying after a while: "Arthur Kirkland."

The nurse smiled radiantly and nodded earnestly before firing the next question.

"How old are you?"

The same lengthy pause hung in the air before it shattered. "Twelve," he said.

Arthur saw the nurse grimace slightly before brushing it off. Was he not twelve? Numbers are so hard to use… He was older than that, right? Maybe fifteen. Twenty?

"Can you count to ten for me?"

Arthur blinked, still gazing intently at the wall. The birds outside were so pretty. Their feathered wings looked so soft and he wished he could fly away with them. How cute. How fun.

"Let me start you off," the nurse said patiently. "One..?"

Arthur's eyes fell onto the ground. The squares looked so cool. It was a little dirty, but it looked like it'd be more fun to sit down there than wherever he was right now. Yellow was his favorite color. Or orange. Blue?

No wait! It was definitely red.

"One, two..?" the nurse prompted.

Oh, he had heard this before.

"Buckle my shoe," Arthur smiled; he was certainly doing this right.

"Three?"

"Four, Pick up… doors."

The nurse frowned slightly, "I see," is what she said, "One more question. Can you name some people you know?"

Arthur opened his mouth before letting it slip shut again. Crack open—no wait. Close. Who did he know..? Why was she asking such difficult question?

The lights seemed so bright—almost like he could touch them. Arthur reached a wavering arm to the air and swiped at one of the lights, but his hand went right through it. That wasn't fair; why couldn't he touch them? Oh and the birds outside the window were marvelous. Such beautiful creatures. They flew high and they flew low. They danced with the wind. But they needn't music for they listened to the rhythmic drum of the heart, counts of three and move your feet. Arthur's fingers twitched, aching to join the dance, but his limbs were much too heavy; his body was too dreary.

The nurse had started speaking again, he could tell that much, but he didn't want to talk to her. He looked away and to the window. She asked a question, but Arthur didn't feel the need to answer.

This apparently drove the nurse to leave, letting the click of the door shutting resonate through the hospital room. Arthur smiled as he was left alone. The room was getting all too boring all too fast and he wished he could leave. He wanted…

What did he want? Where was his home? Where else could he go?

_ One more— It just one—Back to—land_

His mind felt fuzzy as he felt flashes come back. He thought… Had he said those things? So his home was not here, or so he was thinking. He had to go _back_ to somewhere.

He was getting used to this. People just liked to ask him questions that he didn't know for some reason. Things like his name, his parents' names, names of any people he knew… Also things like the date, if he could count—if he recalled anything at all. How was he supposed to answer such difficult questions?

But if there was one thing he realized, it was that they all looked into his eyes, and called him "Arthur." And they all smiled brightest when he said "My name is Arthur Kirkland."

But what's more is that he realized one more thing. They were all very concerned when they asked him if he knew a boy with glasses. Blond hair and blue eyes. He was apparently a bit taller than him. They said his name was "Alfred." They all looked melancholy when he shook his head.

* * *

"He's not responding well," the nurse said outside the room.

Arthur's adoptive mother's eyes had glazed over, staring blankly at the floor. She nodded numbly upon hearing the news. It had been four weeks since the incident and he'd only woken up now. They knew nothing of what happened on the rooftop and how the boys found themselves on the cement, and receiving such news as to Arthur's memory had been damaged, they weren't that confident they'd ever find out what happened. After all, all they had as clues was a boy with amnesia and a voicemail message.

"Do you have anything at home that may jog his memory? Childhood objects, favorite books or music, pictures or videos? Anything?" The nurse prompted when she had not replied.

The woman shook her head again. She hardly had anything that was his, only having him as a son for a few months.

"Wait, I do have his iPod," his mother said after a pause, "I gave it to him three months before… It."

The nurse smiled, nodding. Nodding seemed to be repeated a lot among the people at the hospital.

"Bring it in tomorrow," the nurse said, "For now, we can see if his friends can jog his memory. Did anyone come to visit? What are their names if any?"

Arthur's mother nodded yet again, "Two people claiming to be friends had come. Their names are Antonio and Francis I believe."

And so it was the two boys had been led into the room.

Antonio had entered first, Francis trailing behind him. The atmosphere was grim when their eyes laid upon the limp figure. His empty green eyes. He had multiple tubes connected to his arms and one to his chest. One arm was in a cast and his face had multiple cuts and bruises.

"Hi, Arthur," Antonio smiled amicably.

Arthur stared blankly back at him, green eyes vacant and dull. His eyes stayed on his figure, studying him for a moment before they moved on and stuck to random places around the room. His lips would curve into a smile and drop, repeating this action multiple times.

"Arthur, I'm Antonio," said man spoke softly, approaching his bedside. "Do you remember me?"

"Antonio," Arthur drawled, and Antonio noted how his voice was slurred and distorted.

"Yes, that's me," he encouraged. "I go to your school."

"School," Arthur repeated absentmindedly. He immediately looked away from him and to the opposite corner.

Antonio sighed.

Francis was still relatively close to the doorframe, just watching the scene with sad eyes. His eyes traced the lost figure of the man he'd once loved. Now, that man was just an empty soul in a shell of a body. He had no memory of him, or of the things that made him who he was. Francis couldn't stand such a weak sight.

"That's Francis," Antonio continued, waving towards him. "Do you remember him?"

Arthur's head shook softly at first before turning more violent and reckless.

"Okay, okay, that's okay," Antonio tried to calm him.

"Try telling him stories about his life," the nurse said, "Maybe it could help."  
Antonio nodded, trying to think of something significant that had happened before. Regretfully, he wasn't that close with him. What ever could he do? What ever was there to do to a broken person? He started slowly, softly.

"We had art class together, Arthur," Antonio said quietly, leaving off the question whether or not he remembered. It was obvious he did not. "Me, you, Alfred, and Feliciano sat at the same table. Feliciano was definitely the better artist out of all of us. I was okay, and you didn't like drawing much. Alfred just texted the entire time.

"And there was a time where he got his phone taken away and he actually hit the teacher to take his phone back. Then he just ran right out of the room! He actually _ran_ home. I can only wonder what was on that phone. We all laughed while the teacher called the front office. He got suspended for three days."

Somewhere throughout the story, Antonio had started laughing as he relived it. Only when he remembered where he was and for what reason he had recalled the story had his laughter died down, replaced with a grim smile. He was almost scared to ask again; "Remember?"

Arthur made a noise akin to a grunt and shook his head.

Francis had left the room, unable to hear anymore. Glancing behind him, Antonio stood as well.

"Francis, where are you going? We're supposed to be helping Arthur!" he called after him.

Francis spun around. "Help him? This is useless! He won't remember _anything_!"

Francis's breathing was rapid, and Antonio had a feeling it wasn't from running out of the room. His face was pained and his fists were clenched so his knuckles were turning white. Trembled, he trembled so slightly.

"Even so, how could you just abandon him?" Antonio demanded.

Francis shut his eyes tightly, "I can't take seeing him like that! It just… I-I can't…" he whispered.

Francis put his head in his hands. How painful it was to see someone so full of will and strength degraded to nothing but a shell of his former self. It wasn't even Arthur lying on the bed anymore.

"How did this happen?" Francis asked softly, looking up with watery eyes. "How did this happen? First Arthur a-and… And Alfred… Then Gilbert disappears…"

Antonio nodded. "Life is screwed up," he declared. "But that doesn't mean we can just leave him. What if he gets better? Wouldn't you want to see him?"

Francis was still for a moment. To see Arthur is to see Alfred; they were connected. They were hardly separated—even when they had fallen from the rooftop. And to see Arthur and not Alfred, that would be too painful. He didn't know how he could withstand it.

"I don't know."

* * *

The days, the days passed and fled by. Arthur's dull eyes had gained vibrancy ever so slowly to a point where it nearly wasn't noticeable. The fall had rendered his memory useless forever, according to two doctors. They had said he may regain fragments, but his memory to be restored in full would be an impossibility.

"Arthur, can you tell me what you had for breakfast today?" a man whom Arthur cared not to remember asked.

"Cereal," Arthur replied placidly as he always did.

The man nodded, turning a page in his stacks of paper. Arthur's eyes fell away from him, instead studying the tiles on the ground. His mind always seemed to be occupied by other things now. Words seemed meaningless. They were just forgotten in a matter of minutes anyways; why waste time speaking them? The things in the world, however, were immortal. He liked them better.

"Arthur?"

Said boy looked up. Who was this person again; why were they here?

The questioning-man took his glance as a prompt to continue, "I asked if you remember what you had for dinner last night."

Arthur blinked for a moment, staring straightly before he shook his head.

"It's the same thing you have every night," the man said patiently, "Still can't remember?"

Why would he ask again? Arthur's response was the same.

And the air—it felt cooler and the breeze seemed to pick up a simple waltz.

"Can I dance now?" Arthur asked absentmindedly, listening to the soft hum of music.

The man gave him a strange look—as everyone did when he asked. Why was it so difficult to allow it?

"Your leg is still broken," he reminded the boy.

"I don't care," came the chaste response.

"You can't dance with a broken leg."

"I can."

"You can't," the man's voice dripped with finality, but Arthur didn't care.

"I want to dance with the lights," he said stubbornly, attempting to move an arm.

The man stood, walking over to his side and keeping him in place in bed. His eyes were a dark color as was his hair, and for once Arthur got a good look at the man. The man wore a nametag that Arthur didn't have the mind to read.

"I can't allow you to, and if you won't listen, I'll have to restrain you," he said regretfully, hoping that the last sentence would calm him into not moving anymore.

And it did; Arthur had stayed still. His body was stiff and could hardly move in the first place, and for some reason, the folks at the hospital had a tendency to wrap his limbs in something hard that felt akin to concrete.

The door opened softly as Arthur's adoptive mother stepped inside. She always carried a grim aura about her now. In her arms, she held a few items. Her brown eyes were glassy of now and she set the items on a small table.

"I was told to bring them," she said stoically, "His iPod and his stuffed animal."

The man's posture straightened and he nodded, making his way to the table. He first picked up the green-tinted stuffed rabbit, turning it over curiously in his palm. It wasn't that much larger than the length of his forearm.

"Arthur do you know this little guy?" he turned back to him, moving the animal around animatedly.

Arthur's eyes seemed to glow momentarily as his gaze locked with the rabbit, but it soon died down.

"A little," he admitted.

The man grinned, "That's great," he said, making his way over to the bedside again.

He set the rabbit in his lap, smiling at his as if he were a seven-year-old child. How silly, Arthur thought. He was certainly older than that, wasn't he?

The next item that came towards Arthur was his iPod. The dark blue square-of-a-screen thing. It still had his headphones plugged in; all tangled like they'd just had a huge battle, but no one won. That's the thing: is there ever a winner to battles?

In his hand, Arthur didn't have to be told to put the headphones in. He stuck them into his ears on his own, instantly feeling his cheeks lighten and a pinching effect. Arthur smiled softly as the music started at a low volume. It was rock music. He pressed a finger to the volume switch and turned it up, listening, listening.

"I love this song," he murmured, "The lyrics are just perfect. I remember when Alfred's mom gave the iPod to me, and this was the first song I downloaded."

Arthur laughed lightly as his eyes slipped shut; he could listen all day, or night, or year, or life. Music was the only thing that was truly his.

The song stopped abruptly and his blissful façade slowly disappeared as his vacant eyes resurfaced. He blinked slowly.

_"Are you—about—Jones?"_

_ "It's not—You're—Gift—Songs you want!"_

The flashes, blurred and hazy came through a thick fog, and Arthur could hardly make sense of any of it. He shook it off; it was nothing. It was just a burden, and would only trouble him for now. Oh what a beautiful flower was growing outside the window.

"It looks like the iPod worked well," the man had spoken now; not that Arthur acknowledged him.

His mother nodded numbly, and with shaking hands reached to her pocket.

"There's one more thing," she said quietly, "A-Alfred… He left a voicemail on the home phone."

The man's head turned around at the mention of Alfred and his face was pitiful.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "However, it may help him to hear his voice."

Arthur's mother nodded. She knew this.

She handed the recording over with blank eyes.

"Arthur, I'm going to play something now," the man spoke softly again to get the boy's attention. "Listen okay?"

And with that he clicked play.

"_A-Arthur," Alfred's voice stuttered, "This message… Is for Arthur."_

_ There was jagged breathing on the other end and a groan of pain. _

_ "Arthur, I'm sorry about what… Happened here. Please don't try this again if we… get out of here. If you do," his voice was hoarse, occasionally pausing and sounding strained. Suddenly he laughed a short, blunt chuckle before hissing of pain again. "This is so cliché huh? Well I can't exactly… T-Talk to you right now. This will have to do."_

_ There was gasping on the other end and a crunching noise before another cry of pain._

_ "Shit," he cursed in a whisper, "Ah, I… Don't feel well. I feel like I should have something important—T-To say… But I can't… Think right now… I love you, okay? Love you, too, mom. Matthew."_

_ There were noises made on the other end, perhaps him trying to talk some more, but no coherent sounds would be heard. Eventually, it seemed as if he gave up and groaned again before there was a clattering noise. The voicemail continued in silence for a few minutes. _

_ "Oh my god! Look! Oh my—Ew! There's blood!" came shouts from a distance._

_ "Are they dead?"_

_ There were more screams and shouts, people trying to talk to the pair on the asphalt and some freaking out. There was a shout to go call for an ambulance and more chattering and chaotic noises and voices—_

_ The allotted time for a message has expired. Please redial and call again._

It was silent.

It was silent in the room for all of ten minutes.

It seemed that Arthur's mother had started crying softly, and the man in the room looked grim. He cleared his throat, gaining some authority.

"Do you remember him?" he asked, a bit fearful of the response. Here he was, hardly knowing the boy at all, and yet he hoped he remembered this other boy on the end of the line.

Arthur blinked slowly.

"Who?" he asked.

Arthur's mother had stood and left the room as many others had in the past, seeking shelter in the waiting room with the tissues. Arthur could see her through the glass, see she was crying. He didn't understand why.

"Who was he?" he asked again.

"His name was Alfred," the man said in an emotionless voice.

Or was it that he was trying to mask the many emotions yearning to come through?

"Is he here?" Arthur asked, thinking back to the visitors he'd had. "Can I see him?"

The man shook his head. "He didn't come."

Arthur felt disappointed, though he couldn't understand why. He couldn't understand a lot lately. Why was he so disappointed over someone he didn't know?  
"Is he ever coming?" Arthur asked with hope clawing at the edges of his lips.

The man with a nametag Arthur didn't have the mind or heart to read took a shuddering breath. He spoke again.

"He's dead."

* * *

_**...It had to be done. It just had to be done. I hope you liked it to some extent~ (the italics of his remembering things with dashes were taken from previous chapters.) Reviews pwease?**_


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